« ՆախորդըՇարունակել »
Oh! I could gaze for ever
An angel's dwelling-place.
Thou weepest, childless mother!
"Tis hard to lay thy darling
To meet again in slumber
His small mouth's rosy kiss;
To feel, half conscious why,
That thou art desolate.
And then to lie and weep,
And think the livelong night,
Of all his winning ways,
And all his little wiles!
Oh! these are recollections
Round mothers' hearts that cling
That mingle with the tears
But thou wilt then, fond mother!
(Time brings such wondrous easing). With sadness not unpleasing,
E'en on this gloomy track.
Thou 'It say, 'My first-born blessing!
"I look around, and see
The evil ways of men; And, oh beloved child! I'm more than reconciled
To thy departure then.
"The little arms that clasp'd me,
I lull'd thee on my breast?
"Now, when the hour arrives
A MOTHER'S GRIEF.
To mark the sufferings of the babe,
That fain would ask relief,
Through dreary days and darker nights,
To see, in one short hour, decay'd
To feel how vain a father's prayers,
To think the cold grave now must close
Of all the treasured joys of earth—
Yet when the first wild throb is past
"T WAS BUT A BABE."
I ASK'D them why the verdant turf was riven
Repress your measured sympathies, and say
What know ye of her love Who patient watcheth till the stars grow dim Over her drooping infant, with an eye Bright as unchanging Hope if his repose? What know ye of her woe who sought no joy More exquisite, than on his placid brow To trace the glow of health, and drink at dawn
The thrilling lustre of his waking smile?
And though his lip be mute, Feeling the poverty of speech, to give Fit answer to thee, still his pallid brow And the deep agonizing prayer that loads Midnight's dark wing to him the God of strength, May satisfy thy question.
Ye who mourn, Whene'er yon vacant cradle, or the robes That deck'd the lost one's form, call back a tide Of alienated joy, can ye not trust
Your treasure to His arms, whose changeless care Passeth a mother's love? Can ye not hope, When a few hasting years their course have run, To go to him, though he no more on earth Returns to you?
And when glad Faith doth catch Some echo of celestial harmonies, Archangels' praises, with the high response Of cherubim, and seraphim, oh thinkThink that your babe is there.
THE DYING CHILD.
AH! look thy last, fond mother,
Those silken eyelids weighing down
Are telling to thy aching heart,