THE BEREAVED.
"Not my will, but thine."
I had a little blossom, its nursing-root was dead,
And in my breast I hid it when its angel mother fled,
But at every blast I shudder'd, and I trembled day and night,
Lest some unseen destroyer my only bud should blight.
Two years of anxious care, yet of high and sacred joy,
Brought forth, in ruddy health, my lovely, blooming boy,
With the curls around his head, and the lustre in his eye,
And the music on his lip, like a song-bird of the sky.
In wakeful hours I mused, and I wish'd, while others sleep,
That, for his precious sake, my wealth was broad and deep;
So I forced my lingering mind for a little while to go
And gather for my son, where the gold and silver grow.
The old nurse loved my blooming boy, and round her neck he clung
With his clasping, ivory arms, and his busy, flattering tongue;
She promised to be faithful, with the tear upon her cheek,
And I tore myself away as he lay in slumbers meek.
Both night and day I toil'd, while my heart was with the child,
And on my every labour propitious Fortune smiled;
