How quietly she lies!
Closed are the lustrous eyes,
Whose fringed lids, so meek,
Rest on the placid cheek;
While, round the forehead fair,
Twines the light golden hair,
Clinging with wondrous grace
Unto the cherub face.
Tread softly near her, dear ones! Let her sleep,—
I would not have my darling wake to weep.
Mark how her head doth rest
Upon her snowy breast,
While, 'neath the shadow of a drooping curl,
One little shoulder nestles like a pearl,
And the small waxen fingers, careless, clasp
White odorous flowers in their tiny grasp;
Blossoms most sweet
Crown her pure brow, and cluster o'er her feet,
Sure earth hath never known a thing more fair
Than she who gently, calmly, slumbers there.
Alas! 'tis Death, not sleep,
That girds her in its frozen slumbers deep.
No balmy breath comes forth
From the slight-parted mouth;
Nor heaves the little breast,
In its unyielding rest;
Dead fingers clasp
Flowers in unconscious grasp;—
Woe, woe is me, oh! lone, bereaved mother!
'Tis Death that hath my treasure, and none other.
No more I hear the voice,
Those loving accents made my heart rejoice;
No more within my arms
Fold I her rosy charms.
And, gazing down into the liquid splendour
Of the brown eyes serenely, softly tender,
Print rapturous kisses on the gentle brow,
So cold and pallid now.
No more, no more! repining heart, be still,
And trust in Him who doeth all things well.
Oh, happy little one!
How soon her race was run—
Her pain and suffering o'er,
Herself from sin secure.
Not hers to wander through the waste of years,
Sowing in hope, to gather nought but tears;
Nor care, nor strife,
Dimmed her brief day of life.
All true souls cherished her, and fondly strove
To guard from every ill my meek white dove.
Love, in its essence,
Pervaded her sweet presence.
How winning were her ways;
Her little child-like grace,
And the mute pleadings of her innocent eyes,
Seizing the heart with sudden, soft surprise,
As if an angel, unaware,
Had strayed from Heaven, here;
And, saddened at the dark and downward road,
Averted her meek gaze, and sought her Father, God.
In her new spiritual birth,
No garments soiled with earth
Cling round the little form, that happy strays,
Up through the gates of pearl and golden ways,
Where sister spirits meet her,
And angels joyful greet her.
Arrayed in robes of white,
She walks the paths of light;
Adorning the bright city of our God,
The glorious realms by saints and martyr trod!
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