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THE EMPTY CRADLE.
She sits by the cradle, with sadness and sighing,
And holds the small shoe that her fair infant wore;
Her black-ribboned bonnet beside her is lying,
And damp are her feet from the path they 've come o'er.
For she has been out, where the light breeze was sweeping
The pearl-drops from flowers, which the night had been weeping
Around the fresh grave, where her darling was sleeping
So soundly, its mother could wake it no more.
And holds the small shoe that her fair infant wore;
Her black-ribboned bonnet beside her is lying,
And damp are her feet from the path they 've come o'er.
For she has been out, where the light breeze was sweeping
The pearl-drops from flowers, which the night had been weeping
Around the fresh grave, where her darling was sleeping
So soundly, its mother could wake it no more.
She there hastened forth, while the morn yet was flushing,
With rose-tints and saffron, the clear orient sky;
And there was she bowed, whilst the hot tears were gushing,
To shower the cold clods, from her woe-clouded eye.
She whispered,—she called,—but her child did not hear her:
Her lips to its bed she brought nearer and nearer;
Than life, with all else, O, she felt it were dearer
Her lost one to clasp but a moment,—and die!
With rose-tints and saffron, the clear orient sky;
And there was she bowed, whilst the hot tears were gushing,
To shower the cold clods, from her woe-clouded eye.
She whispered,—she called,—but her child did not hear her:
Her lips to its bed she brought nearer and nearer;
Than life, with all else, O, she felt it were dearer
Her lost one to clasp but a moment,—and die!
For this was the hour, when, in beauty awaking,
Her babe had been wont her glad soul to illume;
And now her wrung heart-strings were bleeding and breaking;
The glory of morn wrapped her spirit in gloom.
And death and the grave seemed their suppliant spurning,
When, back in despair to her chamber returning,
All drooping and lorn, and with fond bosom yearning,
She sought at the cradle what lay in the tomb.
Her babe had been wont her glad soul to illume;
And now her wrung heart-strings were bleeding and breaking;
The glory of morn wrapped her spirit in gloom.
And death and the grave seemed their suppliant spurning,
When, back in despair to her chamber returning,
All drooping and lorn, and with fond bosom yearning,
She sought at the cradle what lay in the tomb.
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But drear is its void,—and its coldness, how chilling!
With soft infant breathings it soothes not her ear:
'T is grief's bitter essence all round it distilling;
Her cherub is gone, and death's loneliness here.
Ah! keen, keen the anguish the now childless mother
Retires in her babe's empty cradle to smother;
And known to her God and her soul, but none other,
The weight of her woe, and the price of her tear!
With soft infant breathings it soothes not her ear:
'T is grief's bitter essence all round it distilling;
Her cherub is gone, and death's loneliness here.
Ah! keen, keen the anguish the now childless mother
Retires in her babe's empty cradle to smother;
And known to her God and her soul, but none other,
The weight of her woe, and the price of her tear!
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