DEATH OF AN INFANT.
Death found strange beauty on that polished brow
And dashed it out.—
There was a tint of rose
On cheek and lip.—He touched the veins with ice,
And the rose faded.—
Forth from those blue eyes
There spake a wishful tenderness, a doubt
Whether to grieve or sleep, which innocence
Alone may wear.—With ruthless haste he bound
The silken fringes of those curtaining lids
Forever.—
There had been a murmuring sound,
With which the babe would claim its mother's ear,
Charming her even to tears.—The Spoiler set
His seal of silence.—
But there beamed a smile
So fixed, so holy, from that cherub brow,
Death gazed—and left it there.—
He dared not steal
The signet-ring of Heaven.
