Page:Poems Cook.djvu/16

But the end was best, for my eye could rest
 On a "picture" my bosom could not withstand;
And my tears gushed out and dropped about,
 Blurring the work of the limner’s hand.

That "picture" gave the "unmade grave"
 In the desolate wood—I can see it now—
With an extra gloom on the foreground bloom,
 And a midnight shadow on every bough,

Side by side, as they lay and died,
 It showed me the little ones, cold and still;
With the redbreasts winging their way and bringing
 A monstrous leaf in each tiny bill.

'Twas crade and rough, but oh, 'twas enough
 To fetter the freedom of Childhood's breath;
That bit of Ideal made fearfully real
 The story of cruelty, murder, and death.

'Twas the "picture" I felt mace my young heart melt
 Into the direst sorrow of all;
As my love was stirred for each dear, little bird,
 Wrapping the Babes in an emerald pall.

'Twas the "picture" that caught my most pitying thought;
 'Twas the "picture" that told of a sad, true thing;
'Twas the "picture" that shone with a charm of its own
 Like the gem that enriches a Memory ring.

Oh! may kind ones look into this fair book,
 And deem its "pictures" as precious and good,
As I, when believing, and weeping, and grieving,
 Did that of "The Babes in the Blackberry Wood."

ELIZA COOK.