The American common-place book of poetry with occasional notes |
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“I thought it slept.”—Henry Pickering.
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 | The American common-place book of poetry |  |
“I thought it slept.”—Henry Pickering.
From Recollections of Childhood.
I saw the infant cherub—soft it lay,As it was wont, within its cradle, now
Decked with sweet smelling flowers. A sight so strange
Filled my young breast with wonder, and I gazed
Upon the babe the more. I thought it slept—
And yet its little bosom did not move!
I bent me down to look into its eyes,
But they were closed; then softly clasped its hand;
But mine it would not clasp. What should I do?
“Wake, brother, wake!” I then, impatient, cried;
“Open thine eyes, and look on me again!”
He would not hear my voice. All pale beside
My weeping mother sat, “and gazed and looked
Unutterable things.” “Will he not wake?”
I eager asked. She answered but with tears.
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Were cast—now on the babe once more were fixed—
And now on me: then, with convulsive sigh
And throbbing heart, she clasped me in her arms,
And, in a tone of anguish, faintly said—
“My dearest boy, thy brother does not sleep;
Alas! he's dead; he never will awake.”
He's dead! I knew not what it meant, but more
To know I sought not. For the words so sad—
“He never will awake”—sunk in my soul:
I felt a pang unknown before; and tears,
That angels might have shed, my heart dissolved.
| The American common-place book of poetry | |