And silver chords again to earth have won And like a vine thou claspest my full heart- "How the lone paths retrace, where thou So late along the mountains at my side; By every place of flowers my course delay ing, "I give thee to thy God!-the God that A well-spring of deep gladness to my heart! And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have My own, my beautiful, my undefiled! "Therefore, farewell!-I go; my soul may fail me, Wove, e'en as pearls, the lilies round thy As the stag panteth for the water-brooks, hair, Beholding thee so fair! Yearning for thy sweet looks! 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! Not in thy cradle bed, Not on thy mother's breast Henceforth shall be thy rest, But with the quiet dead. Yes-with the quiet dead, Baby, thy rest shall be! 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 |