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LINES ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD. 

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Sleep on, sweet cherub; take thy rest;
Fold thy hands across thy breast;
Thou art gone—yes, gone forever,—
To that blest home beyond the river.

Thou wilt wander no more o'er meadow or lea;
Thou wilt never again laugh so merrily;
Thou wilt no more chase the pretty dove;
Here, never more return my love.

But why should I murmur, since the same dark lot
Falls on the rich man's dwelling and poor man's cot?
The lovely ones, in all their pride,
Must soon lie together, side by side.

But yet the scalding tear will start;
As memory o'er the past doth stray,
I fain would stay the fatal dart,
As I recall thy winning way.

But sleep, sleep on, sweet cherub, sleep;
I'll strive no more to mourn or weep;
I feel thy spirit form is near,
Bidding my heart be of good cheer.