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To A Young Girl With An Album Post by :RayRG Category :Poems Author :Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon Date :September 2011 Read :2766

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To A Young Girl With An Album

Gentle Lily with this Album my warmest wishes take,
I know its pages oft thou'lt ope and prize it for my sake,
For, though a trifling offering, it bears the magic spell
Of coming from the hand of one who loves thee passing well.

O could thy young life's course be traced by will or wish of mine,
A smiling, joyous future--a bright lot would be thine,
No cloud should mar the gladness of thy fair youth's op'ning morn,
The roses of thy girlhood should be free from blight or thorn.

Howe'er, 'tis better ordered by a Blessed Power above
Who sends us cross and trial, as a token of His Love;
For we'd cling, ah! far too closely to earthly joys and ties,
Unwilling e'er to leave them for our home beyond the skies.

As the pages of this volume, unwritten, stainless, fair,
Life opens out before thee, let it be thine aim and care
To keep the record spotless, and ever free from all
That thou might'st wish hereafter remorseful to recall.

Not seeking to o'ershadow thy smiling azure eyes,
Nor see that girlish bosom heave with sad thoughts and sighs,
I would whisper low, while wishing thee, all earthly, cloudless bliss,
Be life a preparation for a better life than this!

(The end)
Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon's poem: To A Young Girl With An Album

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They grew together side by side,They filled one house with gleeTheir graves are severed far and wide--By mountain stream and tree.Mrs. HemansThey were as fair and bright a band as ever filled with prideParental hearts whose task it was children beloved to guide;And every care that love upon its idols bright may showerWas lavished with impartial hand upon each fair young flower.Theirs was the father's merry hour sharing their childish bliss,The mother's soft breathed benison and tender, nightly kiss;While strangers who by chance might see their joyous graceful play,To breathe some word of fondness kind would pause upon their way.But years

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Thou art home at last, my darling one, Flushed and tired with thy play,From morning dawn until setting sun Hast thou been at sport away;And thy steps are weary--hot thy brow, Yet thine eyes with joy are bright,--Ah! I read the riddle, show me now The treasures thou graspest tight.A pretty pebble, a tiny shell, A feather by wild bird cast,Gay flowers gathered in forest dell, Already withering fast,Four speckled eggs in a soft brown nest, Thy last and thy greatest prize,Such the things that fill with joy thy breast, With laughing light