ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT.

In the budding of thy beauty,

In the dawning of thy day,

In the vestibule of being,

Dear one! thou wert called away,

From a mother's soft caressing, From that mother's heart distrest, From a happy father's blessing, From that father's bleeding breast,

To thine everlasting slumber,

To the grave's encircling love, To the fadeless bowers of heaven, To the cherub bands above.

In thy breathless slumber lying,
Like a folded flower at rest,

Heard'st thou not thy mother sighing
For the gem that left her breast?

In thy robes of glory beaming,

New-born spirit of the skies,

Saw'st thou not the tear-drop streaming From thy mother's sleepless eyes?

As a sunbeam on the fountain,
Bright and transient was thy stay;
As the mist upon the mountain,
Early thou hast past away.

So a snow-drop sinks in silence,
Pure from its celestial birth;

So a snow-drop, in the summer,
Mounts on sunbeams from the earth.

Like a note of music wafted

From the angelic lyres on high, Like a rosebud earthward straying From the gardens of the sky;

As a heavenly vision blending,
With the shades where mortals pine,
As a blissful dream descending

From the temple's inner shrine;

Glowing in immortal beauty,

Thou upon our path did'st light— Leaving but remembered sweetness, Thou hast fled our aching sight.

To these hearts a season given,
Thou did'st stir their fount of love,
Then resought thy native heaven,
Bearing the full tide above.

Not in vain thine earthly visit,
Heavenly cherub in disguise;

Led by thee our hearts shall venture
To the portals of the skies.

1843.

TO HER OF WHOM IT IS TRUE.

I've seen her when her brow was bright,
And pure as evening's sky,

And the full soul's unclouded light
Blazed from the sparkling eye.
Such sight not earth could yield again,
With rapture pure as this;

One glance of love was dearer then,
Than years of common bliss!

I've seen her when her cheek did fade, And tear-drops dimmed her eye; And on her brow was sorrow's shade, And in her breast a sigh.

Oh! then, to sit in silence near,

Were joy enough for me;

For e'en her tears are far more dear,

Than others' smiles may be!

TO M. B. J.*

I read thy lay,

And the sad music of thy mournful song

Within this heart's deep caves was echoed long,
O, M. B. J. !

And in my spirit's ear, I heard once more
A strain of wo, which I had heard before.

In

Whence came that lay?

my old scrap-book I have found the strain, Which thy lone grief hath poured abroad again, O, M. B. J.!

And I would learn, what heart hath wept its wo, So like my scrap-book five long years ago.

1843.

* Upon some verses printed, under that signature, in a newspaper.