DEATH OF AN INFANT IN ITS MOTHER'S ARMS.
"He slumbers long, young mother,
Upon thy gentle breast;
Thou'rt weary now with watching,
Sweet mother, go to rest:
There seems no pain to stir him,
His peril sure is past,
For see, his soft hand clasp'd in thine,
He heeds nor storm nor blast.
Why dost thou gaze so wildly?
Why strain thy strong embrace?
Unlock thy fearful clasping,
And let me see his face:"
So down that mother laid him,
In her agony of care,
And kiss'd the cold and marble brow
With calm and fix'd despair.
"Oh weep! there's holy healing
In every gushing tear,
Nor question thus that beauteous clay,
The angel is not here;
