Alice Poem by Martin Farquhar Tupper

I.
Beautiful Alice, serene little saint,
My treasure!- O better than mine,-
What mind can imagine, or eloquence paint
Thy gladness and glory divine?
A bright happy spirit, made perfect and free,
On whom The Good Jesus hath smiled,
This ecstasy now hath beatified thee,
My blessed and beautiful child!

II.
Ah! fairest, and purest, and dearest of all,
Sweet babe of two years and a half,
How painful a pleasure it is to recall
The ring of thy once merry laugh;
How touching to dream of that loved little face
With its martyr-expression of pain,
And the tender blue eyes, where angelical grace
Shone patiently smiling again!

III.
What vision was ever more piteous than this,-
To watch her, so wan and so weak,
With white little hands reaching up for a kiss
When faint and unable to speak;
What memory ever so joyous,- that oft
Those dear little hands she would raise,
So tremblingly feeble, so small and so soft,
In prayer and the music of praise!

IV.
O Death, what a loveliness holy and calm,
All silently solemnly sweet,
Invested with bliss and anointed with balm
My babe from her face to her feet!
The silken fringed eyelashes slept on her cheek,
And her mouth was a rosebud half-blown,
And her fingers were folded so prayerfully meek,
And her foot was a lily in stone!

V.
In an ark snowy-white with its silvery sheen,
And scatter'd with flow'rets of spring,
Deep under the turf all mossy and green,
We have left thee, thou dear little thing!
In hope, though in grief,- in affection and prayer,
Assured of the soon coming hour
When that precious root, buried tearfully there,
Shall shoot up again as a flower!

VI.
With hyacinth bulbs we have yearningly traced
In her garden her musical name,
And know that wherever each bulb hath been placed
It surely shall blossom the same;
So thou, hidden rootlet of life and of light,
Though seeming to moulder away,
Shalt break away bright from the prison of Night
To bloom for Eternity's day!

VII.
My glorified Alice! look joyously down
Wherever in spirit thou art,
And suffer the gleam of thy wings and thy crown
To gladden the eyes of my heart!
Those thin picking fingers, at rest from all pain,
Stretch forth from the skies for a kiss,-
That faltering tongue, let me hear it again,
'P'aying p'ayers,' as a spirit in bliss!

VIII.
My beauty! my darling! my precious! my prize!
My cherub, my saint, and my sweet!
My child that has won the bright goal of the skies,
My herald in heaven to meet!
O thanks be to God, that His bountiful love
To me the glad blessing hath given,
My babe - to be heir of His glory above,
My daughter - His daughter in Heaven!