IN FRENCH FIELDS.
47
TO A BEREAVED MOTHER.
An angel with a radiant face
Bent o'er the cradle of a child,
As in a waveless brook to trace
His own sweet image undefiled.
'O charming child, that seem'st my shade,'
Said he,—'come, come away with me;
Oh come, and let no fears dissuade,
This earth is not a place for thee.
'Here never is an unmixed joy,
Distinct from suffering and from pain,
Nothing, alas, without alloy;
No smile but has its sigh again.
'Ah! Not one pleasure here is sure!
The calmest day,—the brightest sun,
A murky tempest will obscure
Perhaps before its course be run.
'And what! Shall griefs disturb or fears
This brow as pure as summer skies
And shall the bitterness of tears
Bedim the lustre of these eyes!
