Lydia

                                I.
             By Ruth Burgess Burleigh
                         As some white lily, drooping on its stall,
                              Lies broken by the wind and Summer rain,
                              So lies our darling on her bed of pain.
                         Around her couch we know that angels walk, 
                              Though all unseen the ministering train.

               We know it from a sense of holy peace
                    Which falls upon us as we enter where
                    Her eyes smile welcome, and her soft brown hair 
               Seems haloed by heaven's light about a face 
                    Serenely bright and delicately fair.
     As on its petals pale the broken flower, 
          Which heavy baptism of the storm has borne, 
          Its sunlit drops, a jewelled crown has worn,—
A new grace caught from the o'erwhelming shower,
          A splendor of new beauty tempest-born,—

     So under holy chrysm of suffering seems 
          To come a purer beauty, tenderer light 
          To cloudless eyes that gaze with far-off sight, 
     Through tear-drops left by pain, till luminous beams 
          From heaven's own sunshine make them wondrous bright.

               Denied her hope's fruition; when the cup 
                    Of richest sweets had almost touched her lip, 
                    She felt it from her trembling fingers slip;
               And yet her all she meekly yielded up,
                    Content the bitter draught of pain to sip.

                         Our human hearts in pity mourn her youth
                              In iron bands of sickness cramped and bound;
                              But she has such a fount of blessings found, 
                         Our grief is changed to gladness, for in truth 
                              Our darling's head with holiest joy is crowned.

                                II.
                        With a White Dove
     I’ve found a Carrier Dove,
     And with a git of live
I send it to the darling of my heart,
     Adroop so pure and sweet,
     ‘Tis joy her face to great,
And take the blessing which her words impast.

               A happy Christmas time!
               Our hearts together chime
          In wishing, for our darling good and true,
               To whom disease and pain
               Have brought the priceless gain
          Of heavenly gifts and graces ever new.

                         The form so sorely tried,
                         By suffering purified,
                    Has grown a medium fit for angels’ use.
                         Her heavenward listening ear,
                         Their whispered tones can hear;
                    Her rendering leaves the heedless no excuse.

                    If in the coming days
                    We walk through thorny ways,
               Our dear one’s light shall always guide our feet,
                    The living patience taught,
                    And in our memories wrought,
               Shall help us all her lessons to repeat.

          A happy Christmas time!
          Our hearts together chime
     In wishing, for our teacher sweet and dear,
          And many thanks we give,
          That how we all should live,
     She tells us in her holy mission here.

                                III.
                         By Geo. S. Burleigh
A Summer's dawn with virgin zone 
Goes slowly to her cloudless throne,
So silently she climbs the skies
We know not when the darkness dies;
But while we gaze, the little room 
Is rich with morning's open bloom.

So climbs into our dusky lives
Thy love-light that for us survives 
Our night of care, which ere we know 
Is flooded with its over flow
Till, for ourselves, the full heart asks.
No sweeter gift than love's light tasks.

From every form and essence fine
Some image comes in hue or line, 
For symbol of that whitening soul 
That burns, a saintly aureole,
Around our darling's stainless brow
Fit for its amaranth even now.

Slow-ripening on its fragile nest,
How sweet the spirit in her breast;
A flower unkissed by sun or storm,
How fair and delicate her form;
A drifting waif through perils rife, 
How precious is that slender life!

A pure ethereal flame to burn
Over its alabaster urn,
It floats and clings so lightly there, 
It seems a spirit of the air, 
Uncertain if to stay or fly, 
But ever pointing to the sky.

A lily with its sweets, and we 
But idle butterfly and bee,
To hover round its spotless bloom, 
Fanning its leaves with painted plume,
Or from its golden heart to bear 
Some vital bloom-dust unaware.

A white angelic Carrier Dove,
With sweetest messages from above, 
Dropped panting in our heavy glooms, 
The breath of Eden in her plumes, 
And in her eye a look to call 
Some touch of tenderness from all.

An angel masked in mortal clay, 
Who, as the veil is worn away, 
Shines through the crystalizing form 
With seraph beauty white and warm, 
Till almost gleam the wings beneath, 
Their elytra's relaxing sheath

A human heart that round her sows 
White love—the fairest flower that blows,
A human soul refined by fire, 
With patience that no pang can tire;
In vain my plausive song I raise, 
Be her own loveliness her praise.