THE BABE BEREAVED OF ITS MOTHER.
Fair is the tint of bloom,
That decks thy brow, my child;
And bright thine eye looks forth from sleep,
Still eloquent and mild;
But she, who would have joy'd
Those opening charms to see,
And clasp'd thee in her sheltering arms
With rapture—where is she?
To heed thine every want
The watch of Love is near,
And all thy feeble plaints are heard
With sympathy sincere;
Yet she, to whom that care
Had been most deeply dear,
Who bare thee on her ceaseless prayer,
The mother—is not here.
Soon will these lips of rose
Their new-born speech essay,
But when thy little hopes and fears
Win forth their lisping way,
The ear that would have lov'd
Their dove-like music best,
Lies mouldering in the lowly bed
Of death's unbroken rest.
Babe!—tho' thou may'st not call
Thy mother from the dead,
Yet canst thou learn the way she went,
And in her footsteps tread;
