THE MOURNER'S CHAPLET.

TO A BEREAVED MOTHER.

JOHN QUINCY ADAMS.

SURE, to the mansions of the blest
When infant innocence ascends,
Some angel, brighter than the rest,
The spotless spirit's flight attends.
On wings of ecstasy they rise,

Beyond where worlds material roll,
Till some fair sister of the skies
Receives the unpolluted soul.

That inextinguishable beam,
With dust united at our birth,
Sheds a more dim, discolored gleam
The more it lingers upon earth.
Closed in this dark abode of clay,
The stream of glory faintly burns:-

Not unobserved, the lucid ray

To its own native fount returns.

But when the LORD of mortal breath
Decrees his bounty to resume,

And points the silent shaft of death
Which speeds an infant to the tomb-
No passion fierce, nor low desire,

Has quenched the radiance of the flame;
Back to its God the living fire
Reverts, unclouded as it came.

Fond mourner! be that solace thine!
Let Hope her healing charm impart,
And soothe, with melodies divine,
The anguish of a mother's heart.
O, think! the darlings of thy love,
Divested of this earthly clod,
Amid unnumbered saints above,
Bask in the bosom of their GOD.

Of their short pilgrimage on earth
Still tender images remain :

Still, still they bless thee for their birth,
Still filial gratitude retain.

Each anxious care, each rending sigh,

That wrung for them the parent's breast, Dwells on remembrance in the sky,

Amid the raptures of the blest.

O'er thee, with looks of love, they bend;
For thee the LORD of life implore:
And oft from sainted bliss descend,
Thy wounded quiet to restore.

Oft, in the stillness of the night,

They smooth the pillow of thy bed; Oft, till the morn's returning light, Still watchful hover o'er thy head.

Hark! in such strains as saints employ, They whisper to thy bosom peace; Calm the perturbed heart to joy,

And bid the streaming sorrow cease. Then dry, henceforth, the bitter tear: Their part and thine inverted seeThou wert their guardian angel here, They guardian angels now to thee.

TO WILLIAM.

WRITTEN BY A BEREAVED FATHER.

W. B. O. PEABODY.

Ir seems but yesterday, my love,
Thy little heart beat high;
And I had almost scorned the voice
That told me thou must die.

I saw thee move with active bound,
With spirits wild and free;
And infant grace and beauty gave
Their glorious charm to thee.

Far on the sunny plains, I saw
Thy sparkling footsteps fly,

Firm, light, and graceful, as the bird
That cleaves the morning sky;
And often, as the playful breeze
Waved back thy shining hair,
Thy cheek displayed the red rose-tint
That health had painted there.

And then, in all my thoughtfulness,
I could not but rejoice

To hear upon the morning wind
The music of thy voice,-

Now echoing in the rapturous laugh,
Now sad, almost to tears,-

'T was like the sounds I used to hear, In old and happier years.

Thanks for that memory to thee,

My little, lovely boy,—

That memory of my youthful bliss,
Which time would fain destroy.
I listened, as the mariner

Suspends the out-bound oar,

To taste the farewell gale that breathes From off his native shore.

So gentle in thy loveliness!

Alas! how could it be,

That Death would not forbear to lay

His icy hand on thee?

Nor spare thee yet a little while,

In childhood's opening bloom,

While many a sad and weary soul
Was longing for the tomb!

Was mine a happiness too pure
For erring man to know ?
Or why did Heaven so soon destroy
My paradise below?
Enchanting as the vision was,

It sunk away as soon

As when, in quick and cold eclipse,
The sun grows dark at noon.

I loved thee, and my heart was blessed;
But, ere the day was spent,

I saw thy light and graceful form
In drooping illness bent,

And shuddered as I cast a look

Upon thy fainting head;

The mournful cloud was gathering there,

And life was almost fled.

Days passed; and soon the seal of death
Made known that hope was vain;

I knew the swiftly-wasting lamp
Would never burn again.

The cheek was pale; the snowy lips
Were gently thrown apart;
And life, in every passing breath,
Seemed gushing from the heart.