She was, in truth, a beauteous child:
At three years old her eyes were wild
With something of a playfulness;
And then she had the softest tress
Of auburn tint, that fell and flew
About her neck of damask hue.
To watch throughout the Summer day,
The butterfly's capricious play,
Or humming bird's bright, rainbow wings,
And all gay, joyous, natural things.
To hear the poets of the grove,
Sing forth their little lays of love;
Or to survey the stars come forth,
Or dancing rainbows hug the earth:
These were the pastime and the play,
That whiled her infant hours away.
And blest was sylvan Elfindale,
With child so fair within its pale.

That was a bland and holy morn,
Like one, on very purpose, born,
A gray godmother stood,
Before the chancel's sacred place,
With Frankie's sweet and artless grace,
And heard the preacher good.
And as the bright baptism fell,
Upon her fallen tresses well,
And o'er her bosom's chastened swell,
The beauteous maiden smiled:
She looked a wingless cherub then--