PART I.

Morning arose, and from their dreams, Awoke the slumbering flowers; Red glowed the hill-tops in her beams, Her crest lay glittering on the streams, And on one cot her gayest gleams Broke in warm golden showers.

A pair of eyes had oped that morn, Eyes soft and sweet and blue; A poor, weak, helpless thing forlorn, Beneath that humble roof was born, A folded bud from blossoming thorn, Save that a soul peeped through.

And many a jocund laugh there rung, Up from that cottage low, And glad words sat on many a tongue, And bliss upon fond bosoms hung, For there a rill of life had sprung, Which would forever flow.

One form unseen stood meekly nigh, Which drew the sunlight there, His radiance for a time flung by, He was an Angel from the sky, With loving pity in his eye, And brow new-wreathed with care.

Down from the palace of the King, That morning had he hied; The song was stayed upon the string, The glory folded in the wing, For sad would be his wandering By that poor mortal’s side.