 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
257
THE EARLY TAKEN.
I stood with the childless—
A desolate pair—
When, drest for the grave,
Lay the sinless and fair,
Who died like a lily that droops on its stem,
And torn were my heart-strings with sorrow for them.
A desolate pair—
When, drest for the grave,
Lay the sinless and fair,
Who died like a lily that droops on its stem,
And torn were my heart-strings with sorrow for them.
Outshone by the curls
That the slumberer wore
Was the mid-summer light
Streaming in at the door,
And clung to her lip a more delicate red
Than tinted the rose-wreath encircling her head.
That the slumberer wore
Was the mid-summer light
Streaming in at the door,
And clung to her lip a more delicate red
Than tinted the rose-wreath encircling her head.
More drear than a desert
Where never is heard
The singing of waters,
Or carol of bird,
Are homes in this dark world of sorrow and sin,
Uncheered by the music of childhood within.
Where never is heard
The singing of waters,
Or carol of bird,
Are homes in this dark world of sorrow and sin,
Uncheered by the music of childhood within.
And round one frail blossom
Your hopes were entwined—
One daughter of beauty
Affection made blind;
Before her ye saw a bright future outspread,
But dreamed not of dirge-note, nor shroud for the dead.
Your hopes were entwined—
One daughter of beauty
Affection made blind;
Before her ye saw a bright future outspread,
But dreamed not of dirge-note, nor shroud for the dead.
Oh! blest is the spirit,
Unstained by the clod,
That mounts in the morn
Like a sky-lark to God:—
A glittering host the new comer surround,
And welcome the harp-strings of Paradise sound.
Unstained by the clod,
That mounts in the morn
Like a sky-lark to God:—
258
And welcome the harp-strings of Paradise sound.
Ye stricken! oh, think,
While your wailing is wild,
That above this dim orb
“It is well with the child!”
And pray for reunion with her ye have lost,
Where love knows no heart-ache, the blossom no frost.
While your wailing is wild,
That above this dim orb
“It is well with the child!”
And pray for reunion with her ye have lost,
Where love knows no heart-ache, the blossom no frost.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |