The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey Collected Edition |
 |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
LITTLE LEONARD'S “GOOD-NIGHT.” |
 | The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey |  |
209
LITTLE LEONARD'S “GOOD-NIGHT.”
“Good-Night! good-night! I go to sleep,”
Murmured the little child;—
And oh! the ray of heaven that broke
On the sweet lips that faintly spoke
That soft “Good-night,” and smiled!
Murmured the little child;—
And oh! the ray of heaven that broke
On the sweet lips that faintly spoke
That soft “Good-night,” and smiled!
That angel smile! that loving look
From the dim closing eyes!
The peace of that pure brow! But there—
Ay, on that brow, so young! so fair!—
An awful shadow lies.
From the dim closing eyes!
The peace of that pure brow! But there—
Ay, on that brow, so young! so fair!—
An awful shadow lies.
The gloom of evening—of the boughs
That o'er yon window wave?—
Nay, nay; within these silent walls,
A deeper, darker shadow falls,
The twilight of the Grave—
That o'er yon window wave?—
Nay, nay; within these silent walls,
A deeper, darker shadow falls,
The twilight of the Grave—
The twilight of the Grave—for still
Fast comes the fluttering breath—
One fading smile—one look of love—
A murmur—as from brooding dove—
“Good-night.”—And this is Death!
Fast comes the fluttering breath—
One fading smile—one look of love—
A murmur—as from brooding dove—
“Good-night.”—And this is Death!
Oh! who hath called thee “Terrible!”
Mild Angel! most benign!
Could mother's fondest lullaby
Have laid to rest more blissfully
That sleeping babe than thine!
Mild Angel! most benign!
Could mother's fondest lullaby
Have laid to rest more blissfully
That sleeping babe than thine!
Yet this is Death—the doom for all
Of Adam's race decreed—
“But this poor lamb! this little one!—
What had the guiltless creature done?”
Unhappy heart! take heed;
Of Adam's race decreed—
210
What had the guiltless creature done?”
Unhappy heart! take heed;
Though He is merciful as just
Who hears that fond appeal—
He will not break the bruised reed,
He will not search the wounds that bleed—
He only wounds to heal.
Who hears that fond appeal—
He will not break the bruised reed,
He will not search the wounds that bleed—
He only wounds to heal.
“Let little children come to me,”
He cried, and to His breast
Folded them tenderly—To-day
He calls thine unshorn lamb away
To that securest rest!
He cried, and to His breast
Folded them tenderly—To-day
He calls thine unshorn lamb away
To that securest rest!
| The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey | |