Then, then it is Faith's tear-dimmed eyes
See through ethereal space,
Amidst the angel-crowded skies,
That dear, that well-known face.
With beckoning hand she seems to say,
"Though, all her sufferings o'er,
Your little one is borne away
To this celestial shore.
"Doubt not she longs to welcome you
To her glad, bright abode;
There happy, endless ages through,
To live with her and God."
A Mother's Dirge Over Her Child.
Bring me flowers all young and sweet,
That I may strew the winding-sheet,
Where calm thou sleepest—baby, fair,
With roseless cheek, and auburn hair!
Bring me the rosemary, whose breath
Perfumed the wild and desert heath;
The lily of the vale, which, too,
In silence and in beauty grew.
Bring cypress from some sunless spot,
Bring me the blue forget-me-not,
That I may strew them o'er thy bier
With long-drawn sigh, and gushing tear!
Oh! what upon this earth doth prove
So steadfast as a mother's love!
Oh! what on earth can bring relief,
Or solace, to a mother's grief!
No more, my baby, shalt thou lie
With drowsy smile, and half-shut eye,
Pillowed upon my fostering breast,
Serenely sinking into rest!
The grave must be thy cradle now;
The wild flowers o'er thy breast shall grow,
While still my heart all full of thee,
In widowed solitude shall be.
