 | Forest leaves |  |
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THE LOST CHILD.
Alone, beneath the heavy shade
In forest, thick, and wild,
With timid eye and footstep, stray'd
A poor bewilder'd child.
Along the cold swamp's weedy edge
He held his devious way,
Where coil'd and hissing in the sedge,
The hideous serpent lay.
In forest, thick, and wild,
With timid eye and footstep, stray'd
A poor bewilder'd child.
Along the cold swamp's weedy edge
He held his devious way,
Where coil'd and hissing in the sedge,
The hideous serpent lay.
The demon wolf with cry of death
Leap'd past him in the chase,
The wild deer linger'd in his path
To scan the stranger's face.
And pale, and full of agony
That little face appeared;
And terror fill'd his soft blue eye
At every sound he heard.
Leap'd past him in the chase,
The wild deer linger'd in his path
To scan the stranger's face.
And pale, and full of agony
That little face appeared;
And terror fill'd his soft blue eye
At every sound he heard.
His yellow curls were bare and wet,
His little coat was torn,
And stains of blood were on his feet,
By reckless travel worn.
His little heart was sick with fear,
His brain was wild and weak,
And hunger's pains so hard to bear,
Had blanch'd his rosy cheek.
His little coat was torn,
And stains of blood were on his feet,
By reckless travel worn.
His little heart was sick with fear,
His brain was wild and weak,
And hunger's pains so hard to bear,
Had blanch'd his rosy cheek.
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And still by every mossy spot
Where pheasant berries hide,
He sought—and when he found them not,
Oh! bitterly he cried.
Four days, that tangled forest through
He sought his home in vain,
Fond hearts were breaking there, he knew,
To see his face again.
Where pheasant berries hide,
He sought—and when he found them not,
Oh! bitterly he cried.
Four days, that tangled forest through
He sought his home in vain,
Fond hearts were breaking there, he knew,
To see his face again.
Mother! oh, mother! was his cry,
Until his voice grew weak,
And throat, and tongue all parch'd, and dry,
And then he could not speak.
The silent shades are gathering now
With dark and dewy wings,
Forming in dell, and valley low,
Dim shades of fearful things.
Until his voice grew weak,
And throat, and tongue all parch'd, and dry,
And then he could not speak.
The silent shades are gathering now
With dark and dewy wings,
Forming in dell, and valley low,
Dim shades of fearful things.
His frame with curdling horror shook,
His heart grew cold as clay,
He crept into a shelter'd nook,
Crouch'd down, and tried to pray.
And then he thought that God was near,
To watch above his bed;
And every agonizing fear,
And phantom horror fled.
His heart grew cold as clay,
He crept into a shelter'd nook,
Crouch'd down, and tried to pray.
And then he thought that God was near,
To watch above his bed;
And every agonizing fear,
And phantom horror fled.
The pangs of hunger died away,
And grief withdrew its sting,
And slumber o'er his spirit lay
Soft as an angel's wing.
And then he dream'd sweet dreams of home,
With all its love, and bliss,
The rural feast, the lighted room,
The mother's tender kiss.
And grief withdrew its sting,
And slumber o'er his spirit lay
Soft as an angel's wing.
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With all its love, and bliss,
The rural feast, the lighted room,
The mother's tender kiss.
The little face grew calm, and white,
His slumber still, and deep,—
Sweet boy, thy sorrows end to-night,
Thou wilt not wake to weep.
Mother—he whisper'd languidly,
And hugg'd the dewy sod—
'Tis done—he wakes to ecstasy,
And sees, the face of God.
His slumber still, and deep,—
Sweet boy, thy sorrows end to-night,
Thou wilt not wake to weep.
Mother—he whisper'd languidly,
And hugg'd the dewy sod—
'Tis done—he wakes to ecstasy,
And sees, the face of God.
Tell us, ye white hair'd wanderers,
In life's dark desert ways;
Ye who have sow'd your path with tears
So many weary days;
Ought we to mourn for him who lies
In that wild dell alone;
Whose weary feet, and weeping eyes,
Have found their rest so soon?
In life's dark desert ways;
Ye who have sow'd your path with tears
So many weary days;
Ought we to mourn for him who lies
In that wild dell alone;
Whose weary feet, and weeping eyes,
Have found their rest so soon?
| Forest leaves | |