WELL-rest thee bright one; we may not deplore
Death hath no terrors unto such as thou; From ills to come, from anguished years-ah, freely We yield thee to thy God, who calleth now.
We would not that bright brow were marked with furrows,
Which Time's dread finger sure had graven there; We would not that pure lip had writhed with sorrows, Which all earth's tenants soon or late, must share.
Ay, rest thee;-yet, thy mother's heart is bleeding, To think that form so chill and pulseless now; That rich dark eye its purple lid is veiling,
And the bright curls are still upon thy brow.
Oft has she gazed on thee in thy proud beauty, Buoyant and gladsome in thy childish glee- But ne'er before that face was deemed so lovely, As, in its death-sleep, it hath seemed to be.
And yet rest on:-the balmy winds are breathing A fragrant requiem o'er thy peaceful bed, And summer-flowers thy humble tomb-stone wreathing,
Their hallowed incense o'er thy slumbers shed.
From the far heaven the angel-stars are beaming In holy beauty on thy lowly rest,
And clustering ivy-leaves are richly streaming, With graceful tendrils o'er the sleeper's breast.
Sleep on-sleep on !—Ah, it were vain deploring, For thou art gone where dwelleth naught of wo; In that bright realm thy pure young soul is soaring, All scenes of sorrow fading far below.
Then fare-thee-well :-no more thy mother's bosom Shall lull those blue-veined eye-lids to their sleep: 'Dust unto dust:'-we may not slight the summons,— We give thee back to earth, but we MUST WEEP.
IT is a melancholy thing To DIE:— To leave the bright creations of our hope Unrealized, to rend away the heart From its fast idols,-to close up the eye For its last slumbers, and pass on unheard, To the far land of silence and of dreams.
'Tis melancholy TO BE BORN :-to come Unshielded, to this dark, tempestuous world, Doomed to its change and blighting, to be thrown Wide on its billowy breast, and cast again Far to its thither shore-a broken reed! -I would not dash the smile of brimming joy From that young mother's eye, bent eagerly To the scarce breathing thing upon her breast, Nor check thy pride, its father.-Given you, Pledge of indissoluble ties, first-born-
Oh! cherish it with undissembled joy,
Fast by affection's shrine, and rest your hopes, Yet not too strongly, on it.-For the plant May blight untimely, ye would nourish up To fair proportions and a queenly grace, Or, grown to the full majesty of years, May feel too harshly the rude play of storms, That sweep the earth, e'en as the whirlwind's wrath!
That smile, fond mother, borrowed from thine own, Just taught to play around its tiny lip, Waking that joy-thrill to thy 'bosom's depths'- Oh! it may grow with the quick lapse of years, To a most perfect witchery, and lure
Some fell, destroying angel to his wiles!
That eye-whose light is caught from the pure heavens
It scarce has looked upon, too soon may gleam With an unearthly wildness-and that heart, Pressed to thine own with ever answering pulse, And beating lightly in its innocence,
May feel the rush of passions scathing it; Or, pressed too long to this chill world's hard heart, That beats not to its beating-giving back But cold responses to its yearning hopes- Grow passionless and still, as for the grave. Those lips-that drink a mother's fondest kiss,
But know not yet to fashion the return,- Those lips, a parent's pride would teach to say 'My father,' and the household words we love, May shed the poison of a treacherous heart, And breathe the words of dark inconstancy. That ear-unwonted yet to listen aught Save the pleased mother's gentlest lullaby, Or father's proud 'my daughter'-may soon feel The grating discords of the world's harsh voice, Calling to sorrow and to early tears.
-The unquiet foot so often thou dost press, With a rapt mother's fondness, to thy lips,
That have just known the joy-oh! shall it tread The scorner's path?
Shall that fair, first-born babe Grow wayward in its early years ;-forget The eye that watched it ever tenderly- That smiled upon it with the morning light And at the evening dews, and waked for it In the still watches of the slumbering night,- The hand that rocked it to its cradle rest, Stayed its first tottering on the nursery floor, Parted the curls upon its childhood brow, And smoothed the ruffles of its infant care,- The voice that hushed its broken slumberings, That taught it in its lisping infancy,
'OUR FATHER,' and the pleasant evening hymn,
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