The warmth which hailed them thine and mine, The welcoming caress !— They miss thee much, but not so much Where'er I tread I miss thy feet, What pleased thine eye, I saw it then- They told me thou wert comely too ;— A something in thy open brow Which spoke the enlarging mind ;- My sightless orbs will upwards turn, As if to look for thee In that far world, which I must earn With years of misery!— I wake the organ's voice, and think I hear thee answering: But down my baffled spirits sink, The tears are vain which then I shed,But who will dare to blame The grief which bows a father's head, My cherished boy-my only one- My hope in age-my gifted son, Would I had died with thee! TO A DYING INFANT. MISS BOWL ES. SLEEP, little baby! sleep! Yes! with the quiet dead, Oh! many a weary wight, Weary of life and light, Would fain lie down with thee. Flee, little tender nursling! Flee to thy grassy nest; There the first flowers shall blow, The first pure flake of snow Shall fall upon thy breast. Peace! peace! the little bosom Labours with shortening breath :— Peace! peace! that tremulous sigh Speaks his departure nigh !— Those are the damps of death. I've seen thee in thy beauty, Baby, thou seem'st to me! Thine upturned eyes glazed over, By the convulsed lid, Their pupils darkly blue. Mount up, immortal essence! Young spirit, haste, depart!And is this death ?-dread thing! If such thy visiting, How beautiful thou art! Thou weepest, childless mother! Thy first, thine only one; 'T is hard from him to part! 'Tis hard to lay thy darling His silent nursery, Once gladsome with his mirth. To meet again in slumber, His small mouth's rosy kiss; To feel (half-conscious why) A dull, heart-sinking weight, Till memory on thy soul That thou art desolate! |