"'T WAS BUT A BABE."
I asked them why the verdant turf was riven
From its young rooting, and with silent lip
They pointed to a new-made chasm among
The marble-pillared mansions of the dead.
Who goeth to his rest in yon damp couch?
The tearless crowd past on—"'t was but a babe."
A babe!—And poise ye in the rigid scales
Of calculation, the fond bosom's wealth?
Rating its priceless idols as ye weigh
Such merchandise as moth and rust corrupt,
Or the rude robber steals? Ye mete out grief,
Perchance, when youth, maturity or age,
Sink in the thronging tomb, but when the breath
Grows icy on the lip of innocence
Repress your measured sympathies, and say
"'T was but a babe."
What know ye of her love
Who patient watcheth till the stars grow dim
Over her drooping infant, with an eye
Bright as unchanging Hope if his repose?
What know ye of her woe who sought no joy
More exquisite, than on his placid brow
To trace the glow, of health, and drink at dawn
The thrilling lustre of his waking smile?
Go ask that musing father why yon grave
So narrow, and so noteless might not close
Without a tear?
