Whither

Agnes, thou child of harmony, now fled
From scenes once bright-illumined with thy smile,
So innocent and kind, free from the guile
Of Orient charm, mysterious and dread,—
Where shall I seek thee, maid? Thou art not dead.
No, Nature’s heart would break, count all else vile,
Bereft of thee e’en for a little while.
Where art thou, then? Hast to the violet sped
That with its gentle blue bespeaks thine eye?
To rippling stream, the echo of thy voice?
To wooing wind that, kissing, says ‘Rejoice!’
Or to the rosebush with its fainting sigh,
‘Ah! too lovely for a season long!’—
Or, art thou on fair angel lips a song?