 | Poetry for children |  |
Death of the youngest Child.
“Why is our infant sister's eye
No more with gladness bright?
Her brow of dimpled beauty, why
So like the marble white?”
My little ones, ye need no more
To hush the sportive tread,
Or whispering, pass the muffled door,—
Your sweetest one is dead.
No more with gladness bright?
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So like the marble white?”
My little ones, ye need no more
To hush the sportive tread,
Or whispering, pass the muffled door,—
Your sweetest one is dead.
In vain you'll seek her joyous tone
Of tuneful mirth to hear,
Nor will her suffering, dove-like moan
Again distress your ear.
Lost to a mother's pillowing breast,
The snow-wreath marks her bed,
Her polish'd cheek in earth must rest,—
Your sweetest one is dead.
Of tuneful mirth to hear,
Nor will her suffering, dove-like moan
Again distress your ear.
Lost to a mother's pillowing breast,
The snow-wreath marks her bed,
Her polish'd cheek in earth must rest,—
Your sweetest one is dead.
Returning spring, the birds will call
Their happy task to take;
Vales, verdant trees, and streamlets, all
From winter's sleep shall wake,
Again your cherished flowers shall bloom,
Anew their fragrance shed;
But she, the darling, will not come,—
Your sweetest one is dead.
Their happy task to take;
Vales, verdant trees, and streamlets, all
From winter's sleep shall wake,
Again your cherished flowers shall bloom,
Anew their fragrance shed;
But she, the darling, will not come,—
Your sweetest one is dead.
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Ye know that blest Redeemer's name
Who gaz'd on childhood's charms,
Indulgent heard its gentle claim,
And clasp'd it in his arms;
To him, your sister-babe hath gone,
Her pains, her tears are o'er,
Safe, near her Heavenly Father's throne,
She bows to death no more.
Who gaz'd on childhood's charms,
Indulgent heard its gentle claim,
And clasp'd it in his arms;
To him, your sister-babe hath gone,
Her pains, her tears are o'er,
Safe, near her Heavenly Father's throne,
She bows to death no more.
| Poetry for children | |