Pages 181-182
THE CHILD'S LAST SLEEP.
The lovely child is dead!
All, all his innocent thoughts, like rose-leaves, scattered,
And his glad childhood nothing but a dream!
Wilson.
Thou sleepest!—but when wilt thou wake, fair child!
When the fawn awakes, in the forest wild?
When the lark's wing mounts, with the breeze of morn?
When the first rich breath of the rose is born?—
Lovely thou sleepest—yet something lies
Too deep and still on thy soft-sealed eyes!
Mournful, though sweet, is thy rest to see;
—When will the hour of thy rising be?
Not when the fawn wakes,—not when the lark,
On the crimson cloud of the morn, floats dark!
—Grief, with vain passionate tears, hath wet
The hair shedding gleams o'er thy pale brow, yet;
Love, with sad kisses—unfelt—hath prest
Thy meek drooped eyelids, and quiet breast;—
And the glad spring, calling out bird and bee,
Shall colour all blossoms, fair child, but thee!
Thou art gone from us, bright one!—that thou should'st die,
And life he left to the butterfly!
Thou art gone, as a dew-drop is blown from the bough,
—Oh! for the world where thy home is now!—
How may we love but in doubt and fear,
How may we anchor our fond hearts here,
How should even joy but a trembler be,
Beautiful dust! when we look on thee!
F. H.
