 | Poems |  |
219
THE CHILD AND ITS ANGEL-PLAYMATE.
“My child! thou droopest like a flower
That trembles 'neath the summer shower,
And day by day, and hour by hour,
More faint thy meek replying
To tender questionings of mine;
A dreamy sorrow, half divine,
Fills those dark eyes, that strangely shine;
My child, my child! thou'rt dying!”
That trembles 'neath the summer shower,
And day by day, and hour by hour,
More faint thy meek replying
To tender questionings of mine;
A dreamy sorrow, half divine,
Fills those dark eyes, that strangely shine;
My child, my child! thou'rt dying!”
“Sweet mother—no: but by my side,
Where'er I go,” the child replied,
“Through all this glorious summer-tide,
Is one you cannot see—
A little child with sunny wings,
And eyes like Heaven;—of holy things,
With earnest voice, it talks and sings—
And softly plays with me!
Where'er I go,” the child replied,
“Through all this glorious summer-tide,
Is one you cannot see—
A little child with sunny wings,
And eyes like Heaven;—of holy things,
With earnest voice, it talks and sings—
And softly plays with me!
220
“‘Let us go home!’ it warbles low;
And when I say—‘I dare not so!
My home is here,’ it whispers—‘No!
Fair child! thy home is mine!’
And then, of some far lovelier land
It fondly tells, where many a band
Of blissful children, hand in hand,
With sportive fondness twine.
And when I say—‘I dare not so!
My home is here,’ it whispers—‘No!
Fair child! thy home is mine!’
And then, of some far lovelier land
It fondly tells, where many a band
Of blissful children, hand in hand,
With sportive fondness twine.
“It says they know not how to sigh,
For nothing there can droop and die;
But bloom immortal glads the eye,
And music wondrous sweet
Doth ebb and flow, without alloy,
From lyres of light, while Love and Joy
Time to the tune, their blest employ,
With weariless wingéd feet!
For nothing there can droop and die;
But bloom immortal glads the eye,
And music wondrous sweet
Doth ebb and flow, without alloy,
From lyres of light, while Love and Joy
Time to the tune, their blest employ,
With weariless wingéd feet!
“A purer prayer it teaches me
Than that I idly learn'd of thee;
It softens all my thoughtless glee,
It makes me true and kind.
My angel-playmate! most I fear,
'Twill wave its wings and leave me here!
‘Thou'lt miss me in that holier sphere!
Oh! leave me not behind!’
Than that I idly learn'd of thee;
It softens all my thoughtless glee,
It makes me true and kind.
My angel-playmate! most I fear,
'Twill wave its wings and leave me here!
‘Thou'lt miss me in that holier sphere!
Oh! leave me not behind!’
221
“It says this is not life, but death,
A daily waste of mortal breath,
And still its sweet voice summoneth
Me to that other land;
But even while it whispers so,
The flowers around more brightly glow,
And yet—and yet, I pine to go,
And join that joyous band!
A daily waste of mortal breath,
And still its sweet voice summoneth
Me to that other land;
But even while it whispers so,
The flowers around more brightly glow,
And yet—and yet, I pine to go,
And join that joyous band!
“My mother! I'll come often back;
I'll not forget the homeward track,
But oft when Pain and Sorrow rack
Thy frame, I'll hover o'er thee;
I'll sing thee every soothing lay
I learn in heaven;—I'll lead the way
For thee to God;—my wings shall play
In dreams of light before thee!
I'll not forget the homeward track,
But oft when Pain and Sorrow rack
Thy frame, I'll hover o'er thee;
I'll sing thee every soothing lay
I learn in heaven;—I'll lead the way
For thee to God;—my wings shall play
In dreams of light before thee!
“Oh! mother! even now I hear
Melodious murmurs in my ear;
The child—the angel-child is near!
I see its light wings glow!
I see its pure and pleading smile!
It moves beside me all the while,
Its eyes my yearning soul beguile,
Sweet mother! let me go!
Melodious murmurs in my ear;
The child—the angel-child is near!
I see its light wings glow!
I see its pure and pleading smile!
It moves beside me all the while,
Its eyes my yearning soul beguile,
Sweet mother! let me go!
222
“Hark to their plaintive spirit-strain!
‘Let us go home!’ again—again
It rises soft—that sad refrain!
My playmate! stay for me!
It clasps my hand! It warbles low—
‘Let us go home!’ I go—I go!
My pinions play—with heavenly glow—
My mother—I am free!”
‘Let us go home!’ again—again
It rises soft—that sad refrain!
My playmate! stay for me!
It clasps my hand! It warbles low—
‘Let us go home!’ I go—I go!
My pinions play—with heavenly glow—
My mother—I am free!”
The fair child lay upon her breast,
As if in its accustom'd rest,
A slumbering dove within its nest.
But well the mother knew
That never more that pure blue eye
To hers would speak the soul's reply;
“She is not dead—she could not die!
My child in heaven! adieu!”
As if in its accustom'd rest,
A slumbering dove within its nest.
But well the mother knew
That never more that pure blue eye
To hers would speak the soul's reply;
“She is not dead—she could not die!
My child in heaven! adieu!”
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