ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD. MRS. JEVONS. O LAY her gently on her infant bier, And shed fond tears, and weave a funeral wreath Of the pale roses of the wintry year, Less lovely than the flower that fades beneath. But round her couch our silent vigils keep. We would not murmur at thy deep repose, Or call thee ours, the ills of life to prove, And taste the bitterness of mortal woes. Oh, blest! to feel thy guiltless race is run— Thy fadeless crown without the strife is won. TO MY SON. GRAHAME. TWICE has the sun commenced his annual round, G And tell, regretful, how I looked and spoke; What walks I loved; where grew my favourite oak; What lore I taught him, roaming wood and wild, And trace to him the way, the truth, the life. ON A PICTURE OF A SLEEPING CHILD. BERNARD BARTON. How beautiful is sleep! The peasant boy who, folded in his plaid, Kept watch beside his sheep, Seems lovelier in its silent beauty clad. The warrior in his tent, From fancied glory by its spell beguiled, Looks calmly innocent, As when he was a happy gentle child. The brow of hoary age, Pain's pallid cheek, and sorrow's sunken eye, E'en the curled lip of rage, Confess by turn its magic mastery. But softest falls its dew On childhood's brow and cheek; whether they wear The rose's healthier hue, Or early sickness plant the lily there. How beautiful is sleep! Yet if its purest beauties thou wouldst feel, And bid thy heart confess its mute appeal. Or to this picture turn But for a moment thy attentive eye ; The pleading charm of slumbering infancy. In breathless silence stand, As by the timid turtle's downy nest; Its little cheek in placid stillness prest! Mark what a helpless charm Is shed o'er every feature, every limb! That smiling mouth :-and if those eyes be dim, Quenching their brighter flashes Beneath those veiny lids! a softer spell Upon their silken lashes In quiet innocence appears to dwell. Yet sleep is awful, too, So like to death's its features it can dress ;- Thine own, I deeply feel its awfulness. |