As the lily of the valley she was fair
As the lily of the valley she was sweet,
From her softly-silken head of sunny hair
To the budded little dimples of her feet.
But the lilies with their beakers bent to pour
Their invisible libations, can bit this;
While our Bud with sweets ran over, evermore
When a happy mother shook it with a kiss!
Though her smiling only rippled the repose
Of a light that seemed her body to illume,
It was sweeter than the sweetest breath of rose
For a little spirit nestles in the bloom!
Never was a blue so tender in the sky,
As her eyes illumined azure, dewy fresh;
Never was a cloud so pearly, floating by,
With the morning filtered through it, as her felsh.
And the little soul within it every day
Melted sunnier through the azure of her eye;
Melted clearer through the whiteness of her clay,
Asher little loves and wonders flitted by;
Till a bitter, bitter billow swept our pearl
To the deeps so far, yet near us everywhere;
And a blast went o’er our lily with a whirl,
That drove out the little spirit nestled there.
Margarita! darling Maggie! precious pearl!
Treasure of inestimable human worth!
Budded lily of the valley—baby girl—
Wafter from the misty island of our earth!
God of pity! is there any angel-breast,
Warm and tender as a mother’s guardian arm,
Where to fold our little darling into rest—
Fold her warmly, as a mother, out of harm?
Aye, the blessed, through affliction sorely crossed
Ere the crown came, keep our nursling till we come;
Keep our little blue-eyed Maggie—oh! not lost—
Sweetly to unfold, and glad us coming home.
Heaven is nearer at the gate which took her in,
Earth is richer at the spot that gave her birth
And, with her in heaven, ‘tis better to her kin
Than if we had never seen her on our earth.
What is won, though won in sorrow, is for aye.
What is lost, though very sweet, is for a nigh;
And the blooming of that dear life hid away,
Shall surprise us in the morning with delight.
Let us cling, then, to our darling's Budded charms
As they open in the Islands of the Blest—
Where our mourners are heaven’s angels, in whose arms,
The white babes of earth are folded into rest.
Maggie