BIOGIIAPIIICAI. SKETCH. XXV 



I went from peu to book, and book to pen. 



Ah, loved retreat, to memory ever dear! 



The tliought of thee brings the quiek-coming tear; 



E'en though I drew thine image line by line, 



I cannot paint tlie spell that once was thine; 



That through the mazes of our childish play 



Still drew my soul to thy dear books away. 



Then hand in hand with Joy my ^''oung soul strayed, 



Nor ever met with Sorrow as we played 



Where, on thy vine-clad hills, O Turançon, 



The purple clusters ripen in the sun. 



In the old villa, where our childish eyes 



Saw Gothic towers in feudal pomp arise, 



A COS}' nest, where gentle turtle-doves 



To three sweet children murmured low their loves — 



I shared my sports, and spent my happy lioiu's 



With the bright group of children, birds, and tlowei's. 



The eldest seemed that favored child of light 



From whose red lips fell pearls and diamonds bright. 



Angel or fairy seemed the vision splendid, 



And peace and joy her eveiy step attended. 



The breezes followed her with sweet caresses, 



And held their revels iu her sunny tresses. 



The sunshine there its lost gold seemed to seek. 



And touched with richer rose her peachy cheek. 



The lamb that fled before my outstretched hand 



Ran to her call, and seemed to understand. 



The timid sparrow lost its early dread, 



And nibbled from her hand the crumbs of bread. 



— . . . Ah, hoAv I longed to stop the flying hours 



When, in our home, we seemed to call her ours ! 



And when she left us, in my wistful eyes 



The slow large tears of sorrow would arise, 



As long I stood, with saddest discontent, 



T(j watch, down the long street, the way she went 



For in her absence all smiles fled awav — 



