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THE SCULPTURED CHILDREN.
Fondly to linger o'er your lovely rest,
As o'er the cheek's warm glow,
And the sweet breathings low,
Of babes that grew and faded on her breast;
If then the dove-like tone
Of those faint murmurs gone,
O'er her sick sense too piercingly return;
If for the soft bright hair
And brow and bosom fair,
And life, now dust, her soul too deeply yearn:
O gentle forms, entwined
Like tendrils, which the wind
May wave, so clasped, but never can unlink!
Send from your calm profound
A still small voice, a sound
Of hope, forbidding that lone heart to sink!
By all the pure meek mind
In your pale beauty shrined,
