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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


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


God bade thee early taste the spring for which so many thirst,

And bliss-eternal bliss-is thine, my fairest and my first!



Go to thy rest, my child!

Go to thy dreamless bed,
Gentle and undefiled,

With blessings on thy head;
Fresh roses in thy hand,

Buds on thy pillow laid,
Haste from this fearful land,
Where flowers so quickly fade.

Before thy heart might learn

In waywardness to stray,
Before thy feet could turn
The dark and downward way;
Ere sin might wound the breast,
Or sorrow wake the tear,
Rise to thy home of rest,

In yon celestial sphere.

Because thy smile was fair,

Thy lip and eye so bright,
Because thy cradle-care

Was such a fond delight,
Shall Love with weak embrace
Thy heavenward flight detain?
No! Angel, seek thy place
Amid yon cherub-train.



MOURN not ye, whose babe hath found
Purer skies and firmer ground,
Flowers of bright perennial hue,
Free from thorns, and fresh with dew,
Founts, that tempests never stir,
Gardens, without sepulchre.

Mourn not ye, whose babe hath sped,
From this region of the dead,
To yon winged seraph-band,
Golden lute and glorious land,
Where no tempter's subtle art
Clouds the brow or wounds the heart.

Knowledge, in that clime, doth grow
Free from weeds of toil and woe,
Peace, whose olive never fades,
Love, undimm'd by sorrow's shades,
Joys, which mortals may not share,
Mourn not ye, whose babe is there.



"Mourn for the living, and not for the dead." HEBREW DIRGE.

I saw an infant, marble cold,
Borne from the pillowing breast,
And in the shroud's embracing fold
Laid down to dreamless rest;
And moved with bitterness I sigh'd,
Not for the babe that slept,
But for the mother at its side,

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,
Whose angel-wing is spread?
No, for the lover pale and lone,

His heart is with the dead.

I wander'd to a new-made grave,
And there a matron lay,
The love of Him who died to save
Had been her spirit's stay,

Yet sobs burst forth of torturing pain;
Wail ye for her who died?
No, for that timid, infant train
Who roam without a guide.

I murmur not for those who die,
Who rise to glory's sphere,
I deem the tenants of the sky
Need not our mortal tear.
Our woe seems arrogant and vain,
Perchance it moves their scorn,
As if the slave beneath his chain,
Deplored the princely born.

We live to meet a thousand foes,

We shrink with bleeding breast,
Why shall we weakly mourn for those
Who dwell in perfect rest?
Bound for a few sad, fleeting years,
A thorn-clad path to tread,
Oh! for the living spare those tears
Ye lavish on the dead.



JUST as the child could totter on the floor,
And, by some friendly finger's help upstay'd,
Range through the garden-walk, whose low ground-

Were peeping forth,-shy messengers of spring,-
Even at that hopeful time, the winds of March,
One sunny day, smiting insidiously,
Raised in the tender passage of the throat
Viewless obstruction; whence, all unforewarn'd,
The household lost their hope and soul's delight.

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