Yes, mother of the dying one, That soft white hand within thy own, Those still, cold fingers never move The flashes of its speaking eye, But let thy burning thoughts go forth, "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 But they were closed; then softly clasp'd its hand; HENRY PICKERING, THE DYING CHILD. "T is dying! life is yielding place A fix'd, unchanging calm, A thoughtful beauty rests the while 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 Perhaps thine eye is gazing down Thy life! how cold it might have been, How happy thus to sink to rest, 'Tis well, then, that the smile should lie 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 brighten ing 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 And thus 't was thine to prove, dear babe, when sickness and in pain; 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; |