Page:Poetical Remains.pdf/149

Such pangs were thine, young mother!—Thou didst bend
O'er thy fair boy, and raise his drooping head,
And faint and hopeless, far from every friend,
Keep thy sad midnight-vigils near his bed,
And watch his patient, supplicating eye,
Fixed upon thee—on thee!—who couldst no aid supply!

There was no voice to cheer thy lonely woe
Through those dark hours—to thee the wind's low sigh,
And the faint murmur of the ocean's flow,
Came like some spirit whispering—"He must die!"
And thou didst vainly clasp him to the breast
His young and sunny smile so oft with Hope had blest.

'Tis past—that fearful trial—he is gone—
But thou, sad mourner! hast not long to weep,
The hour of Nature's chartered peace comes on,
And thou shalt share thine infant's holy sleep.