And sick with dark foreboding fears,we dared not breathe aloud, Sat, hand in hand, in speechless grief, to wait death's coming cloud. It came at length-o'er thy bright blue eye the film was gathering fast; And an awful shade pass'd o'er thy brow, the deepest and the last; In thicker gushes strove thy breath-we raised thy drooping head,— A moment more-the final pang-and thou wert of the dead! Thy gentle mother turn'd away to hide her face from me, And murmur'd low of Heaven's behests, and bliss attain'd by thee; She would have chid me that I mourn'd a doom so blest as thine, Had not her own deep grief burst forth in tears as wild as mine! We laid thee down in thy sinless rest, and from thine infant brow Cull'd one soft lock of radiant hair-our only solace now, Then placed around thy beauteous corse, flowersnot more fair and sweet Twin rose-buds in thy little hands, and jasmine at thy feet. Though other offspring still be ours, as fair perchance as thou, With all the beauty of thy cheek-the sunshine of thy brow, They never can replace the bud our early fondness nursed, They may be lovely and beloved, but not like thee -the first! THE FIRST! How many a memory bright that one sweet word can bring, Of hopes that blossom'd, droop'd, and died, in life's delightful spring Of fervid feelings pass'd away-those early seeds of bliss, That germinate in hearts unsear'd by such a world as this! My sweet one, my sweet one, my fairest and my first! When I think of what thou might'st have been, my heart is like to burst! But gleams of gladness thro' my gloom their soothing influence dart, And my sighs are hush'd, my tears are dried, when I turn to what thou art! Pure as the snow-flake ere it falls and takes the stain of earth, With not a taint of mortal life, except thy mortal birth, God bade thee early taste the spring for which so many thirst, And bliss-eternal bliss-is thine, my fairest and my first! ALARIC A. WATTS. TO A DYING INFANT Go to thy rest, my child! Go to thy dreamless bed, With blessings on thy head; Buds on thy pillow laid, Before thy heart might learn In waywardness to stray, In yon celestial sphere. Because thy smile was fair, Thy lip and eye so bright, Was such a fond delight, MRS. SIGOURNEY. "IN THE GARDEN WAS A SEPULCHRE." MOURN not ye, whose babe hath found Mourn not ye, whose babe hath sped, Knowledge, in that clime, doth grow MRS. SIGOURNEY. HEBREW DIRGE. "Mourn for the living, and not for the dead." HEBREW DIRGE. I saw an infant, marble cold, Whose soul in anguish wept. They bare a coffin to its place, I ask'd them who was there? And they replied, "a form of grace, The fairest of the fair." But for that blest one do ye moan, His heart is with the dead. I wander'd to a new-made grave, Yet sobs burst forth of torturing pain; I murmur not for those who die, We live to meet a thousand foes, We shrink with bleeding breast, MRS. SIGOURNEY. SUDDEN DEATH OF A CHILD. JUST as the child could totter on the floor, Were peeping forth,-shy messengers of spring,- |