The Young Mother

Composed in its beauty, the fair infant slept;
But still the young mother sat by it and wept:
She rocked not the cradle, she sang not the song,
The sleep of her dear, only child to prolong.

The same fleecy cover, so soft and so warm,
That oft wrapped it sleeping, lay light o'er its form;
Its pillow was downy, and smooth was its bed,
And yet, that sad mother! her fond bosom bled.

She knew that no dream of her babe, in its rest,
Was now of her voice, or its home on her breast;
She caught not the sound nor the balm of its breath:
She knew that her little one slumbered in death!

A hand with the pencil was called to portray
The features and form of her child as it lay;
But false were the hues and the touches of art
To paint the bright image enshrined in her heart.

Its lustre was drawn from a glory on high.
No pencil of earth could the likeness supply;
Nor yet on the canvass was mortal to trace
A smile the pure spirit had left on that face.

The skies, as they opened, their guest to receive,
Had shed, on the dust they allured it to leave,
A sign of the peace, of the joys and the love,
Encircling for aye the young angel above.

That mother rose calm, when the beautiful clay
Must be from her sight laid forever away!
The gloom left her souls as a cloud leaves the sun;
It wispered, "Thy will, O my Father, be done!"