Thou'rt gone from us, bright one-that thou should'st die, And life be left to the butterfly. Thou'rt gone, as a dew-drop is swept from the bough, -Oh! for the world where thy home is now! MRS. HEMANS. A MOTHER'S LAMENT. I LOVED thee, daughter of my heart; Thy days, my little one, were few; An Angel's morning visit, That came and vanish'd with the dew; 'Twas here, 't is gone, where is it? Yet didst thou leave behind thee The eye, the lip, the cheek, the brow, Where are they now?-those smiles, those tears, To her quick pulse revealing Hush'd in a moment on her breast, Thy dreams-no thought can guess them; For then this waking eye could see, The things that never were to be, Fond hopes that mothers cherish, Mine perish'd on thy early bier; Yet would these arms have chain'd thee, Sarah! my last, my youngest love, Though thou art born in heaven above, Nor will affection let me Believe thou canst forget me, Then,-thou in heaven and I on earth, May this one hope delight us, That thou wilt hail my second birth, Where worlds no more can sever Parent and child for ever. MONTGOMERY, THE DEATH OF A CHILD AT DAY-BREAK. "Let me go, for the day breaketh."-GEN. xxxi. 35 CEASE here longer to detain me, See yon orient streak appearing, Lately launch'd, a trembling stranger, Now my cries shall cease to grieve thee, Weep not o'er these eyes that languish There, my Mother, pleasures centre ;- Ne'er our Father's house shall enter;- As through this calm and holy dawning, Blessings, endless, richest blessings, Yet to leave thee sorrowing grieves me, R. CECIL. THE LITTLE SHROUD SHE put him on a snow-white shroud, And gathered early primroses To scatter o'er the dead. She laid him in his little grave, She had lost many children-now, The last of them was gone; Beside the funeral stone. One midnight, while her constant tears She heard a voice, and lo! her child His shroud was damp, his face was white! Your tears have made my shroud so wet, Oh, love is strong!-the mother's heart One eve a light shone round her bed, Her infant in his little shroud, "Lo! mother, see, my shroud is dry, And I can sleep once more!' And beautiful the parting smile The little infant wore. And down within his silent grave, He laid his weary head, And soon the early violets The mother went her household ways Again she knelt in prayer, And only ask'd of Heaven its aid Her heavy lot to bear. MISS LANDON. |