Yes, mother of the dying one, The beautiful must go! That soft white hand within thy own, Their arms around the mother's neck, Shall dally with the raven curls That cluster thickly there. The flashes of its speaking eye, For the earth shall be above, But let thy burning thoughts go forth, That sinless one, where worlds shall bow Before the judgment seat; And pray, that when the wing of death Is shadow'd on thy brow, Thy soul may be beside the one That sleepeth near thee now. "I THOUGHT IT SLEPT." I SAW the infant cherub-soft it lay, Deck'd with sweet-smelling flowers. A sight so strange Fill'd my young breast with wonder, and I gazed Upon the babe the more. I thought it sleptAnd yet its little bosom did not move! I bent me down to look into its eyes, But they were closed; then softly clasp'd its hand; But mine it would not clasp. What should I do? "Wake, brother, wake!" I then, impatient, cried; Open thine eyes, and look on me again!" 66 He would not hear my voice. All pale beside He's dead! I knew not what it meant, but more THE DYING CHILD. Tis dying! life is yielding place A thoughtful beauty rests the while But those pale lips could never smile And sure some heavenly dreams begin O that those mildly conscious lips To tell how death's severe eclipse Is passing from thine eye; For living eye can never see The change that death hath wrought in thee. Perhaps thy sight is wandering far Throughout the kindled sky, Amid the flames on high;- Perhaps thine eye is gazing down Rejoicing to have gain'd thy crown, To dwell beneath the throne of Him, Thy life! how cold it might have been, How dark, how deeply stain'd with sin, 'Tis well, then, that the smile should lie It tells to our inquiring eye What words could never speak A revelation sweetly given Of all that man can learn of heaven. ANONYMOUS. THE DEATH OF THE FIRST-BORN. My sweet one, my sweet one, the tears were in my eyes When first I clasp'd thee to my heart, and heard thy feeble cries; For I thought of all that I had borne, as I bent me down to kiss Thy cherry lips and sunny brow, my first-born bud of bliss! I turn'd to many a wither'd hope,-to years of grief and pain And the cruel wrongs of a bitter world flash'd o'er my boding brain ;— I thought of friends grown worse than cold, of persecuting foes, And I ask'd of Heaven, if ills like these must mar thy youth's repose? I gazed upon thy quiet face-half blinded by my tears Till gleams of bliss, unfelt before, came brightening on my fears,— Sweet rays of hope that fairer shone, 'mid the clouds of gloom that bound them, As stars dart down their loveliest light when midnight skies are round them. My sweet one, my sweet one, thy life's brief hour is o'er, And a father's anxious fears for thee can fever me no more; And for the hopes-the sun-bright hopes that blossom'd at thy birth They too have fled, to prove how frail are cherish'd things of earth? "T is true that thou wert young, my child, but tho' brief thy span below, To me it was a little age of agony and woe; For, from thy first faint dawn of life thy cheek began to fade, And my heart had scarce thy welcome breathed, ere my hopes were wrapt in shade. Oh the child, in its hours of health and bloom that is dear as thou wert then, Grows far more prized-more fondly loved - in sickness and in pain; And thus 't was thine to prove, dear babe, when every hope was lost, Ten times more precious to my soul for all that thou hadst cost! Cradled in thy fair mother's arms, we watch'd thee day by day, Pale, like the second bow of Heaven, as gently waste away; |