# Zinzendorff and Other Poems/The Daughter

THE DAUGHTER.
Wheels o'er the pavements roll'd, and a light form
Just in the bud of blushing womanhood
Press'd the paternal threshhold. Wrathful Night
Muffled the timid stars, and rain-drops hung
On that fair creature's rich and glossy curls.
She stood, and shiver'd, but no mother's hand
Dried those damp tresses, and with warm caress
Sustain'd the weary spirit. No, that hand
Was with the cold, dull earth-worm.
 —Grey and sad,
The tottering nurse rose up, and that old man,
The soldier-servant who had train'd the steeds
Of her slain brothers, for the battle field,
Essay'd to lead her to the couch of pain,
Where her sick father pined. Oft had he yearn'd
For her sweet presence, oft, in midnight's watch,
Mus'd of his dear one's smile, till dreams restor'd
The dove-like dalliance of her ruby lip
Breathing his woes away. But distant far,
She, patient student, bending o'er her tasks,
Toil'd for the fruits of knowledge, treasuring still
In the heart's casket, a fond father's smile,
And the pure music of his welcome-home,
Rich guerdon of her labors.
 But there came
A summons of surprise, and on the wings
Of filial love she hasted.
 —'Twas too late!
The lamp of life still burn’d,—yet 'twas too late.
The mind had past away, and who could call
Its wing from out the sky? For the embrace
Of strong idolatry, was but the glare
Of a fix'd, vacant eye. Disease had dealt
A fell assassin's blow. Oh God! the blight
That fell on those fresh hopes, when all in vain
The passive hand was grasp'd, while the wide halls
Echoed to "father! father!"
 —Through the shades
Of that long, silent night, she sleepless bent,
Bathing with tireless hand the unmov'd brow,
And the death-pillow smoothing. When fair Morn
Came with its rose-tint up, she shrieking clasp'd
Her hands in joy, for its reviving ray
Flush'd that wan brow, as if with one brief trace
Of waking intellect. 'Twas seeming all,
And Hope's fond visions faded, while the day
Rode on in glory. Eve her curtain drew,
And found that pale and beautiful watcher there,
Still unreposing. Restless on his couch,
Toss'd the sick man. Cold Lethargy had steep'd
The last wan poppy in his heart's red stream,
And Agony was stirring Nature up
To struggle with her Spoiler.
 "Oh my God!
Would he could sleep!" sigh'd a low, silver voice,
And then she ran to hush the measur'd tick
Of the dull night-clock, and to scare the owl
Which clinging to the casement, hoarsely pour'd
A boding note. But ah! from that lone couch
Thick-coming groans announc'd the foe who strikes
But once. They bare the fainting child away,
And paler than that ashen corse, her face,
Half by a flood of ebon tresses hid,
Droop'd o'er the old nurse's shoulder. It was sad,
To see a young heart bursting, while the old
Sank to its rest.
 There came another change;
The mournful bell toll'd out the funeral hour,
And many a foot throng'd where the sable hearse
Tarried. Friendship was there, with heavy heart,
Keen Curiosity intent to scan
The lofty mansion,—and gaunt Worldliness
Even o'er the coffin and the warning shroud,
Revolving his vile schemes.
 And one was there
To whom this earth could render nothing back
Like that pale piece of clay. Calmly she stood,
As marble statue. The old house dog came,
Pressing his rough head to her snowy palm,
All unreprov'd. He for his master mourn'd,
And could she spurn that faithful friend, who oft
His shaggy length through many a fire-side hour
Stretch'd at her father's feet, and round his bed
Of death had watch'd, with wondering, wishful eye,
In fear and sympathy? No! on his neck
Her orphan tear had fallen, and by her side
His noble front he rear'd, as proud to guard
The last lov'd relic of his master's house.
There was a calmness on that mourner's brow,
Ill understood by many a lawless glance
Of whispering gossip. Of her sire they spake,
Who suffered scarce the breath of heaven to stir
The tresses of his darling, and who deemed
In the deep passion of his heart's sole love,
She was a mate for angels. Then they gaz'd
Upon her tearless cheek, and murmuring said
"How strange that he should be so slightly mourn'd!"
—Oh woman, oft misconstrued! the pure pearls
Lie all too deep in thy heart's secret well,
For the unpausing and impatient hand
To win them forth. In that meek maiden's breast
Sorrow and loneliness sank darkly down,
While the blanch'd lip breath'd out no boisterous plaint
Of common grief.
 Even on to life's decline,
Amid the giddy round of prosperous years,
The birth of new affections, and the joys
That cluster round earth's favorites, there walk'd
Still at her side, the image of her Sire,
As in that hour when his cold, glazing eye
Met hers, and knew her not.—When her full cup
Perchance had foam'd with pride, that icy glance
Checking its effervescence, taught her soul
The chasten'd wisdom of attemper'd bliss.