Zinzendorff and Other Poems/The Babe bereaved of its Mother

From Wikisource
Jump to navigation Jump to search
4045247Zinzendorff and Other PoemsThe Babe bereaved of its Mother1836Lydia Huntley Sigourney


THE BABE BEREAVED OF ITS MOTHER.


Fair is the tint of bloom,
    That decks thy brow, my child;
And bright thine eye looks forth from sleep,
    Still eloquent and mild;
But she, who would have joy'd
    Those opening charms to see,
And clasp'd thee in her sheltering arms
    With rapture—where is she?

To heed thine every want
    The watch of Love is near,
And all thy feeble plaints are heard
    With sympathy sincere;
Yet she, to whom that care
    Had been most deeply dear,
Who bare thee on her ceaseless prayer,
    The mother—is not here.

Soon will these lips of rose
    Their new-born speech essay,
But when thy little hopes and fears
    Win forth their lisping way,
The ear that would have lov'd
    Their dove-like music best,
Lies mouldering in the lowly bed
    Of death's unbroken rest.

Babe!—tho' thou may'st not call
    Thy mother from the dead,
Yet canst thou learn the way she went,
    And in her footsteps tread;

For sure that path will lead
    Up to a glorious home,
Where happy spirits never part,
    And evil cannot come.

Her's was the hope that glows
    Unwavering and serene,
The chasten'd spirit's meek repose
    In every changeful scene;
Her's was the victor-power
    When mortal anguish came,—
Child!—be thy holy trust thro' life,
    Thy peace in death, the same.