My future will not copy fair my past -

I wrote that once; and thinking at my side My ministering life-angel justified The word by his appealing look upcast To the white throne of God, I turned at last, And there, instead, saw thee, not unallied To angels in thy soul! Then I, long tried By natural ills, received the comfort fast, While budding, at thy sight, my pilgrim's staff Gave out green leaves with morning dews impearled.

I seek no copy now of life's first half:

Leave here the pages with long musing curled, And write me new my future's epigraph, New angel mine, unhoped for in the world!