Poems of Womanhood

THE FIRST GRAY HAIR.

THE matron at her mirror,

With her hand upon her brow,
Sits gazing on her lovely face-
Ay, lovely even now.

Why doth she lean upon her hand
With such a look of care?

Why steals that tear across her cheek?
She sees her first gray hair!

Time from her form hath ta'en away

But little of its grace,

His touch of thought hath dignified
The beauty of her face.

Yet she might mingle in the dance
Where maidens gayly trip,

So bright is still her hazel eye,
So beautiful her lip.

The faded form is often marked
By sorrow more than years;
The wrinkle on the cheek may be
The course of secret tears;
The mournful lip may murmur of
A love it ne'er confessed,
And the dimness of the eye betray
A heart that cannot rest.

But she hath been a happy wife;

The lover of her youth

May proudly claim the smile that pays
The trial of his truth;

A sense of slight, of loneliness,
Hath never banished sleep;
Her life hath been a cloudless one;
Then wherefore doth she weep?

She looked upon her raven locks;
What thoughts did they recall?

O, not of nights when they were decked
For banquet or for ball;

They brought back thoughts of early youth,
Ere she had learned to check,
With artificial wreaths, the curls
That sported o'er her neck.

She seemed to feel her mother's hand
Pass lightly through her hair,
And draw it from her brow, to leave
A kiss of kindness there.

She seemed to view her father's smile,
And feel the playful touch

That sometimes feigned to steal away

The curls she prized so much.

And now she sees her first gray hair;
O, deem it not a crime

For her to weep when she beholds
The first footmark of Time;

She knows that, one by one, those mute
Mementos will increase,

And steal youth, beauty, strength away, Till life itself shall cease.

"Tis not the tear of vanity
For beauty on the wane;

Yet, though the blossom may not sigh
To bud and bloom again—
It cannot but remember,
With a feeling of regret,
The spring forever gone,
The sun so nearly set.

Ah, lady, heed the monitor!
Thy mirror tells thee truth;
Assume the matron's folded veil,
Resign the wreath of youth;
Go, bind it on thy daughter's brow;
In her thou'lt still look fair;

"Twere well would all learn wisdom who Behold the first gray hair.

INDEX.

PAGR