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A guiding-cherub to that home
Where every tear is dry.
Child's Hymn.
ON THE LOSS OF AN INFANT BROTHER.
No more my little brother's voice,
At early morn I hear—
No more his sparkling eyes rejoice
To see our mother near.
They took him where our grandsire slept,
On pillow green and fair,
And laid him in that lowly bed,
And turn'd, and left him there.
But then, his never-dying soul
On glorious wing did soar,
Where pain that made his cheek so pale
Can never vex him more.
