1840-50.] REBECCA S. NICHOLS. 297 Then the golden light of morning Streamed upon the lady there ; They who found her, stark and lonely, Said the corse was very fair. WEE WILLIE. Our Willie is a little boy, I do not know a bolder ; And, though his years are scarcely two, He seems, to us, much older; He is a famous hand at play. With horse and whip, or rattle, And more than half the summer-day, Delights us with his prattle. Wee Willie loves the open air, Far from the dusty city ; And though he's brown as any hue, To us he's fair and pretty. We see him not as others see. Perhaps, not half so clearly, Yet, if more beautiful to us, 'Tis — that we love more dearly. Wee Willie has a little song. He sings when he is merry, — Each small word lingering on his lip. Like bird upon a cherry, — He has not learned to utter, yet. His thoughts, in speech unbroken ; But deepest joy to us they give. Although but partly spoken. Wee Willie has some naughty ways. His warmest friends displeasing, — Is willful when his sport is crossed, And fond of noise and teasing : But then he is so small a boy. We hope by word and letter, To teach him ere he grows a man. Some gentler way, and better. Wee Willie is the last of four, — The others sweetly slumber ; For counting o'er our little flock, Three angels now we number : Three angels gone, and in our hearts Three wounds our giief attesting : And in the church-yard, side by side. Three little coffins resting. Wee Willie is our only child, — Our hope — our bud of brightness ; He came, a bird, in sorrow's gloom, With song and smile of lightness ; What wonder, then, that while we love. It is with fear and trembling. Lest, in this happy, healthful guise. Dark Death should be dissembling. Wee Willie ! may that Mighty Arm, Which guards His children ever. Give strength unto thy faltering steps. And to each weak endeavor. Our Father! fill Wee Willie's heart With thought and purpose holy. And grant to him that priceless gem — A spirit meek and lowly. A LAMENT. I DO lament me ! — If my love had died — Had sought the verge of Death's ex- treme abyss. Garbed in immortal truth! they would have lied Who said that grief had not been heaven to this ! I might have risen from the stunning blow And wept and raved, accusing madly, Heaven ! Then midst the sudden blasphemy of woe Dropped by the dead, and prayed to be foroiven !
