While The Billy BoilsSearchOh, thou whom Beauty called its own,And nursed with fondest care ;Yet tasted from thine infant yearsThe darkness of despair.
The golden morn of life a wreathHad placed upon thy brow,While buds and blossoms opened wideAnd lingered on their bough.
Has death removed thee in thy noon,And left thee nameless here,That all thy last of beauty mayDepart without a tear.
Without some kindred spirit’s loveTo swell emotion’s sigh,And, ere those lips had closed in sleep,To lisp the last “Good-bye” ?
Has Death enwrapt thee in his arms,And left thee to beguile,By beauty’s last bewildering glance,Life’s soft and heavenly smile ? —
That breathless hour, when darkness chills,And marks with eager hasteThe last faint tints of loveliness,The first of ruined waste ?
Or, after darkness of the night,Through storm and bitter sighs,Has daylight brought thee some relief,And lingered in those eyes ?
My fancy paints thy living soul,Soft staying in its flight,Reluctant winging on its course,And longing for the light.
And light will come, and with it life,And thou wilt live to seeThe bliss of happiness unrolledThroughout eternity.
Sydney, July 19, 1871.