'Tis hard to lay thy darling Deep in the damp cold earth; His empty crib to see, His silent nursery, Once gladsome with his mirth. To meet again in slumber His small mouth's rosy kiss; Then, wakened with a start, By thine own throbbing heart, His twining arms to miss! To feel (half conscious why) Till memory on thy soul That thou art desolate ! And then to lie and weep, And think the live-long night, Feeding thine own distress With accurate greediness Of all his winning ways, His joy at sight of thee, His tricks, his mimicry, And all his little wiles! Oh! these are recollections Round mothers' hearts that cling, That mingle with the tears And smiles of after years, With oft awakening. But thou wilt then, fond mother, In after years look back, (Time brings such wonderous easing,) With sadness not unpleasing, E'en on this gloomy track. Thou'lt say, 'My first born blessing! It almost broke my heart, When thou wert forced to go; And yet, for thee I know,' "Twas better to depart. • God took thee in his mercy, And thou art sanctified! '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 clasped me, The innocent lips that pressed, Would they have been as pure Till now, as when of yore I lulled thee on my breast? Now. (like a dew drop shrined Thou'rt safe in heaven my dove! The everlasting One. And when the hour arrives, From life that sets me free; Thy spirit may await, The first at heaven's gate, To meet and welcome me. Anon. SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND. She is far from the land where her young And lovers around her are sighing ; hero sleeps, But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, She sings the wild song of her dear native plains, Ah! little they think who delight in her strains, He had lived for his love, for his country he died; Oh! make her a grave where the sun-beams rest, They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west, Moore. TO THE MEMORY OF A YOUNG LADY. She is gone far away to where Seraphs shall sing Her welcome to bowers of bliss! And the harps of the blest shall sweetly ring She has gone to the home of the gentle heart, Where the glow of that innocence ne'er shall depart Then weep not for her who brightly came And ere earth sullied the soul's pure flame, Thou blossoming virtue ! thou could'st not die! And it is not thy fate that demands a sigh, Anon. |