But ceaseless, life-consuming sorrow, slept. In sighs of fragrance, and across the wave Rung in strange sounds of harmony, as though Some Spirit of Heaven his midnight hymn breathed there, I do remember it well-though long, long past; Or the enchantment of the scene and time,- She died and died unknown to all around, Literary Gazette. ISABEL. TO A DYING INFANT. SLEEP, little baby! Sleep! But with the quiet dead. 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, 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, So beautiful, as now, Baby, thou seem'st to me! Thine up-turned eyes glazed over, By the convulsed lid, Their pupils darkly blue. Thy little mouth half-open- Mount up, immortal essence! How beautiful thou art! Oh! I could gaze for ever 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, Then, wakened with a start To feel (half conscious why,) T Till memory on thy soul That thou art desolate! And then to lie and weep, Of every past delight ;— Of all his winning ways, His joy at sight of thee, His tricks, his mimicry, And all his little wiles! Oh! these are recollections Round mothers' hearts that cling,— That mingle with the tears And smiles of after years, But thou wilt then, fond Mother! E'en on this gloomy track. Thou'lt say 'My first-born blessing, And yet, for thee, I know, "God took thee in his mercy, And thou art sanctified! 'I look around, and see The evil ways of men; And, oh! Beloved child! I'm more than reconciled To thy departure then. "The little arms that clasped me, I lulled thee on my breast? 'Now, like a dew-drop shrined Thou'rt safe in heaven, my dove! 'And when the hour arrives From flesh that sets me free, Thy spirit may await The first at heaven's gate, To meet and welcome me.' Blackwood's Magazine. EPIGRAM, FROM THE GREEK OF JULIAN. As a garland once I made, In a bed of roses laid, Love I found; with eager joy C. |