 | Poems |  |
216
A MOTHER IN HEAVEN TO HER DYING BABE.
Hush, hush, my wailing one,
Thy mother hovers near,
Her breath is on thy pallid cheek,
Her whisper in thine ear;
She may not dry thy tears,
Nor hold thy throbbing head,
Oh haste to these immortal spheres,
Where tear was never shed.
Thy mother hovers near,
Her breath is on thy pallid cheek,
Her whisper in thine ear;
She may not dry thy tears,
Nor hold thy throbbing head,
Oh haste to these immortal spheres,
Where tear was never shed.
Keen anguish wrings thy breast,
And wakes the gasping sigh,
Cold dews are gathering o'er thy brow,
And darkness dims thine eye,
Heaven hath no throb of pain,
Heaven hath no tempter's charms,
Friends! Friends!—why will ye thus detain
My darling from my arms?
And wakes the gasping sigh,
Cold dews are gathering o'er thy brow,
And darkness dims thine eye,
Heaven hath no throb of pain,
Heaven hath no tempter's charms,
Friends! Friends!—why will ye thus detain
My darling from my arms?
Long had he dwelt below,
Perchance his erring path,
Had been through bitterness and woe,
On to his Maker's wrath;
Why thus with fruitless cares
The angel-spirit stay?
Hark! the Redeemer calls it home,
Rise, dearest!—come away.
Perchance his erring path,
Had been through bitterness and woe,
On to his Maker's wrath;
Why thus with fruitless cares
The angel-spirit stay?
Hark! the Redeemer calls it home,
Rise, dearest!—come away.
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