LINES ON THE DEATH OF H. W. B.
Oh, can it be that thou hast passed away,My own dear little brother? can it beThat I shall ne'er again behold thy face? But little more than one short year had fledSince in the cold and silent grave was laidAnother precious little form, and thenUpon my soul this deep, dark shadow fell,That ever, ever more must linger there,Until we meet where death can never part. No longer may I clasp within my ownThy little baby hands, nor on thy lipsAnd cheek and brow impress a sister's kiss;My voice no more shall soothe thee into sleep,For thou wilt never wake on earth again. Thou wast a little sunbeam in my path;And now, how sad to think that thou art gone!Oh, thou wast lovely e'en when death had setIts seal upon thy brow, and sleeping 'midThe flowers our loving hands about thee placed.The rosebud white within thy little handWas fair, sweet emblem of thy innocence.It is not wrong that I should grieve for thee;
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