H.

COME, dear one, smile consent! Thy fair young brow

Was never arched for stern Denial’s frown.

Could angels glance like April sunbeams down

From their high thrones, where burning splendors glow,

To this cold sphere, cloud-mantled, far below,

As April suns awake the budding flower,

And from its sweet cup quaff the dropping shower,

Warmed by their breath would young Love’s roses glow,

From “Feeling’s flushing cheek they ’d kiss the tear,

And words of comfort to the worn heart tell;

And art not thou, my life, their sister dear?

Then in thy soul let kindred kindness dwell,—

Unfold the wings stretched o’er thy bosom fair

And let my wearied spirit nestle there!