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Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/A Mother's Dirge over her Child

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4079262Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878A Mother's Dirge over her ChildJ. C. Hutchieson
A Mother's Dirge Over Her Child.
Bring me flowers all young and sweet,
That I may strew the winding-sheet,
Where calm thou sleepest—baby, fair,
With roseless cheek, and auburn hair!

Bring me the rosemary, whose breath
Perfumed the wild and desert heath;
The lily of the vale, which, too,
In silence and in beauty grew.

Bring cypress from some sunless spot,
Bring me the blue forget-me-not,
That I may strew them o'er thy bier
With long-drawn sigh, and gushing tear!

Oh! what upon this earth doth prove
So steadfast as a mother's love!
Oh! what on earth can bring relief,
Or solace, to a mother's grief!

No more, my baby, shalt thou lie
With drowsy smile, and half-shut eye,
Pillowed upon my fostering breast,
Serenely sinking into rest!

The grave must be thy cradle now;
The wild flowers o'er thy breast shall grow,
While still my heart all full of thee,
In widowed solitude shall be.

No taint of earth, no thought of sin,
E'er dwelt thy stainless breast within;
And God hath laid thee down to sleep,
Like a pure pearl below the deep.

Yea! from mine arms thy soul hath flown
Above, and found the heavenly throne,
To join that blest angelic ring,
That aye around the altar sing.

Methought, when years had rolled away,
That thou wouldst be mine age's stay,
And often have I dreamt to see
The boy—the youth—the man in thee!

But thou hast past! for ever gone,
To leave me childless and alone,
Like Rachel pouring tear on tear,
And looking not for comfort here!

Farewell, my child, the dews shall fall
At morn and evening o'er thy pall;
And daisies, when the vernal year
Revives, upon thy turf appear.

The earliest snowdrop there shall spring,
And lark delight to fold his wing,
And roses pale, and lilies fair,
With perfume load the summer air!

Adieu, my babe! if life were long,
This would be even a heavier song,
But years like phantoms quickly pass,
Then look to us from memory's glass.

Soon on death's couch shall I recline;
Soon shall my head be laid with thine:
And sundered spirits meet above,
To live for evermore in love.