And silver chords again to earth have won me, And like a vine thou claspest my full heart How shall I hence depart? "How the lone paths retrace, where thou wert playing So late along the mountains at my side; And I, in joyous pride, "I give thee to thy God!--the God that gave thee, A well-spring of deep gladness to my heart! And precious as thou art, And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee, My own, my beautiful, my undefiled! By every place of flowers my course delay- "Therefore, farewell!-I go; my soul may ing, fail me, Wove, e'en as pearls, the lilies round thy As the stag panteth for the water-brooks, hair, Yearning for thy sweet looks! Beholding thee so fair! But thou, my First-born! droop not, nor bewail me, "And, oh! the home whence thy bright smile Thou in the shadow of the Rock shalt dwell, "And thou, will slumber's dewy cloud fall The flowers run wild-the flowers we sowed round thee, Around our garden-tree; Without thy Mother's hand to smooth thy Our vine is drooping with its load Calm is that look, that brow is fair, The chill of death is on that cheekThose lips shall never silence break; No soul is in that cherub smile, Illusive charm, and lovely guile ! The eye has shot its final spark, The liquid, lustrous orb-is dark! And swift must every feature fly From the soft face of infancy! And now the kiss of agony, "Whose touch thrills with mortality," The Parents give-but who shall tell The anguish of that fond farewell! Yet, from the grave's mysterious night That form again shall spring to light! E'en now in yon eternal rest, The unearthly mansion of the blest, The uncloth'd Spirit joins the hymn Swelling from burning seraphim: And were our passport to the skies As his-then speed each hour that flies, And Earth, let each successive Sun "Swift rise-swift set-be bright, and done." TO A DYING INFANT. C. BOWLES. SLEEP, little baby! Sleep! Yes-with the quiet dead, 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- Ny 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, A thing all health and glee; But never then wert thou So beautiful as now, Baby, thou seem'st to me! Thine upturn'd eyes glazed over, By the convulsed lid, Thy little mouth half open- Mount up, immortal essence ! Young spirit, haste, depart!And is this death!-Dread Thing? If such thy visiting, How beautiful thou art! Oh! I could gaze for ever Upon that waxen face; So passionless, so pure! The little shrine was sure An Angel's dwelling-place. Thou weepest, childless Mother! Aye, weep 'twill ease thine heart;— He was thy first-born son, Thy first, thine only one, 'Tis hard from him to part. 'Tis hard to lay thy darling Deep in the damp, cold earth,— His empty crib to see, His silent nursery Once gladsome with his mirth. To meet again in slumber, His small mouth's rosy kiss; Then, wakened with a start, By thine own throbbing heart, His twining arms to miss! |