"I feel the cold sweat stand;
My lips grow dry and tremulous, and my breath
Comes feebly up. Oh! tell me, is this death?
Mother! your hand-
"Here-lay it on my wrist,
And place the other thus, beneath my head,
And say, sweet mother!--say, when I am dead,
Shall I be missed?
"Never beside your knee
Shall I kneel down again at night to pray,
Nor with the morning wake, and sing the lay
You taught to me!
"Oh, at the time of prayer,
When you look round and see a vacant seat,
You will not wait then for my coming feet-
You'll miss me there!"—
"Father! I'm going home!
To the good home you speak of, that blest land
Where it is one bright summer always, and
Storms do not come.
"I must be happy then :
From pain and death you say I shall be free-
That sickness never enters there, and we
Shall meet again !”—
"Brother! the little spot
I used to call my garden, where long hours
We've stayed to watch the budding things and flowers
Forget it not!
"Plant there some box or pineSomething that lives in winter, and will be
A verdant offering to my memory,
And call it mine !"
"Sister! my young rose-tree
That all the spring has been my pleasant care,
Just putting forth its leaves so green and fair,
I give it thee.
"And when its roses bloom,
I shall be gone away-my short life done!
But will you not bestow a single one
Upon my tomb ?"
"Now, mother, sing the tune
You sang last night-I'm weary and must sleep!
Who was it called my name ?-Nay, do not weep,
You'll all come soon!"
Morning spread over earth her rosy wings-
And that meek sufferer, cold and ivory pale,
Lay on his couch asleep! The gentle air
Came through the open window, freighted with
The savoury odours of the early spring-
He breathed it not! The laugh of passers-by
Jarred like a discord in some mournful tune,
But marred not his slumbers-He was dead!
WE miss her footfall on the floor,
Amidst the nursery din;
Her tap-tap at our bedroom door,
Her bright face peeping in.
And when to Heaven's high courts above
Ascends our social prayer,
Though there are voices that we love,
One sweet voice is not there.
And dreary seems the hours, and lone,
That drag themselves along,
Now from our board her smile is gone,
And from our hearth her song.
We miss that farewell laugh of hers,
With its light joyous sound;
And the kiss between the balusters,
When good-night time comes round.
And empty is her little bed,
And on her pillow there
Must never rest that cherub head
With its soft silken hair.
But often as we wake and weep,
Our midnight thoughts will roam,
To visit her cold, dreamless sleep,
In her last narrow home.
A MOTHER'S DIRGE OVER HER CHILD.
Then, then it is Faith's tear-dimmed eyes
See through ethereal space,
Amidst the angel-crowded skies,
That dear, that well-known face.
With beckoning hand she seems to say,
"Though, all her sufferings o'er,
Your little one is borne away
To this celestial shore.
"Doubt not she longs to welcome you
To her glad, bright abode;
There happy, endless ages through,
To live with her and God."
A MOTHER'S DIRGE OVER HER CHILD.
BRING me flowers all young and sweet,
That I may strew the winding-sheet,
Where calm thou sleepest-baby, fair,
With roseless cheek, and auburn hair!
Bring me the rosemary, whose breath
Perfumed the wild and desert heath;
The lily of the vale, which, too,
In silence and in beauty grew.
Bring cypress from some sunless spot,
Bring me the blue forget-me-not,
That I may strew them o'er thy bier
With long-drawn sigh, and gushing tear!
Oh! what upon this earth doth prove
So steadfast as a mother's love!
Oh! what on earth can bring relief,
Or solace, to a mother's grief!
No more, my baby, shalt thou lie
With drowsy smile, and half-shut eye,
Pillowed upon my fostering breast,
Serenely sinking into rest!
The grave must be thy cradle now;
The wild flowers o'er thy breast shall grow,
While still my heart all full of thee,
In widowed solitude shall be.
554 DEATH AND BURIAL OF A CHILD AT SEA.
No taint of earth, no thought of sin,
E'er dwelt thy stainless breast within;
And God hath laid thee down to sleep,
Like a pure pearl below the deep.
Yea! from mine arms thy soul hath flown
Above, and found the heavenly throne,
To join that blest angelic ring,
That aye around the altar sing.
Methought, when years had rolled away,
That thou wouldst be mine age's stay,
And often have I dreamt to see
The boy-the youth-the man in thee!
But thou hast past! for ever gone,
To leave me childless and alone,
Like Rachel pouring tear on tear,
And looking not for comfort here!
Farewell, my child, the dews shall fall
At morn and evening o'er thy pall;
And daisies, when the vernal year
Revives, upon thy turf appear.
The earliest snowdrop there shall spring,
And lark delight to fold his wing,
And roses pale, and lilies fair,
With perfume load the summer air!
Adieu, my babe! if life were long,
This would be even a heavier song,
But years like phantoms quickly pass,
Then look to us from memory's glass.
Soon on death's couch shall I recline;
Soon shall my head be laid with thine:
And sundered spirits meet above,
To live for evermore in love.
DEATH AND BURIAL OF A CHILD AT SEA.
My boy refused his food, forgot to play,
And sickened on the waters, day by day;
He smiled more seldom on his mother's smile;
He prattled less in accents void of guile,
DEATH AND BURIAL OF A CHILD AT SEA.
Of that wild land, beyond the golden wave,
Where I, not he, was doomed to be a slave;
Cold o'er his limbs the listless languor grew;
Paleness came o'er his eye of placid blue;
Pale mourned the lily where the rose had died,
And timid, trembling, came he to my side.
He was my all on earth. Oh! who can speak
The anxious mother's too prophetic woe,
Who sees death feeding on her dear child's cheek,
And strives in vain to think it is not so?
Ah! many a sad and sleepless night I passed
O'er his couch, listening in the pausing blast,
While on his brow, more sad from hour to hour,
Drooped wan Dejection, like a fading flower!
At length my boy seemed better, and I slept-
Oh, soundly!--but methought my mother wept
O'er her poor Emma; and, in accents low,
Said, "Ah! why do I weep, and weep in vain
For one so loved, so lost? Emma, thy pain
Draws to a close! Even now is rent in twain
The loveliest link that binds thy breast to woe-
Soon, broken heart, we soon shall meet again!”
Then o'er my face her freezing hand she crossed,
And bending, kissed me with her lip of frost.
I waked: and at my side-oh! still and cold!—
Oh! what a tale that dreadful chillness told!
Shrieking, I started up, in terror wild;-
Alas! and had I lived to dread my child?
Eager I snatched him from his swinging bed;
His limbs were stiff-he moved not--he was dead!
Oh! let me weep!-what mother would not weep,
To see her child committed to the deep?
No mournful flowers, by weeping fondness laid,
Nor pink, nor rose, drooped, on his breast displayed,
Nor half-blown daisy in his little hand:—
Wide was the field around, but 'twas not land.
Enamoured death, with sweetly pensive grace,
Was awful beauty to his silent face.
No more his sad eye looked me into tears!
Closed was that eye beneath his pale cold brow;
And on his calm lips, which had lost their glow,
But which, though pale, seemed half unclosed to speak,
Loitered a smile, like moonlight on the snow.
I gazed upon him still-not wild with fears—
Gone were my fears, and present was despair!
But, as I gazed, a little lock of hair,
Stirred by the breeze, played, trembling on his cheek ;-
O God! my heart!-I thought life still was there.
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