Hark how the rolling surge of sound, Wakes the hushed spirit through thine ear Then mark the cloven sphere that holds O Father! grant thy love divine G DOROTHY Q. A FAMILY PORTRAIT. RANDMOTHER'S mother: her age, I guess, Thirteen summers, or something less; Girlish bust, but womanly air; Smooth, square forehead with uprolled hair, On her hand a parrot green Look! there's a rent the light shines through, Dark with a century's fringe of dust,- Such is the tale the lady old, Dorothy's daughter's daughter, told. Who the painter was none may tell,- Yet in her cheek the hues are bright, Look not on her with eyes of scorn,- Ay! since the galloping Normans came, O Damsel Dorothy! Dorothy Q.! Such a gift as never a king Save to daughter or son might bring,— All my title to house and land; Mother and sister and child and wife What if a hundred years ago Those close-shut lips had answered No, One tenth another, to nine tenths me? Soft is the breath of a maiden's YES: Not the light gossamer stirs with less; There were tones in the voice that whispered then O lady and lover, how faint and far It shall be a blessing, my little maid! I will heal the stab of the Red-Coat's blade, |