The angel.

    —­Ye know me not, sweet sisters?—­All in vain
     Ye seek your lost ones in the shapes they wore;
     The flower once opened may not bud again,
     The fruit once fallen finds the stem no more.

     Child, lover, sire,—­yea, all things loved below,
     Fair pictures damasked on a vapor’s fold,
     Fade like the roseate flush, the golden glow,
     When the bright curtain of the day is rolled.

     I was the babe that slumbered on thy breast. 
    —­And, sister, mine the lips that called thee bride. 
    —­Mine were the silvered locks thy hand caressed,
     That faithful hand, my faltering footstep’s guide!

     Each changing form, frail vesture of decay,
     The soul unclad forgets it once hath worn,
     Stained with the travel of the weary day,
     And shamed with rents from every wayside thorn.

     To lie, an infant, in thy fond embrace,
     To come with love’s warm kisses back to thee,
     To show thine eyes thy gray-haired father’s face,
     Not Heaven itself could grant; this may not be!

     Then spread your folded wings, and leave to earth
     The dust once breathing ye have mourned so long,
     Till Love, new risen, owns his heavenly birth,
     And sorrow’s discords sweeten into song!

II

I am going to take it for granted now and henceforth, in my report of what was said and what was to be seen at our table, that I have secured one good, faithful, loving reader, who never finds fault, who never gets sleepy over my pages, whom no critic can bully out of a liking for me, and to whom I am always safe in addressing myself.  My one elect may be man or woman, old or young, gentle or simple, living in the next block or on a slope of Nevada, my fellow-countryman or an alien; but one such reader I shall assume to exist and have always in my thought when I am writing.

A writer is so like a lover!  And a talk with the right listener is so like an arm-in-arm walk in the moonlight with the soft heartbeat just felt through the folds of muslin and broadcloth!  But it takes very little to spoil everything for writer, talker, lover.  There are a great many cruel things besides poverty that freeze the genial current of the soul, as the poet of the Elegy calls it.  Fire can stand any wind, but is easily blown out, and then come smouldering and smoke, and profitless, slow combustion without the cheerful blaze which sheds light all round it.  The one Reader’s hand may shelter the flame; the one blessed ministering spirit with the vessel of oil may keep it bright in spite of the stream of cold water on the other side doing its best to put it out.