"Now, mother, sing the tune
You sang last night—I'm weary and must sleep!
Who was it called my name?—Nay, do not weep,
You'll all come soon!"
Morning spread over earth her rosy wings—
And that meek sufferer, cold and ivory pale,
Lay on his couch asleep! The gentle air
Came through the open window, freighted with
The savoury odours of the early spring—
He breathed it not! The laugh of passers-by
Jarred like a discord in some mournful tune,
But marred not his slumbers—He was dead!
The Lost Little One.
We miss her footfall on the floor,
Amidst the nursery din;
Her tap-tap at our bedroom door,
Her bright face peeping in.
And when to Heaven's high courts above
Ascends our social prayer,
Though there are voices that we love,
One sweet voice is not there.
And dreary seems the hours, and lone,
That drag themselves along,
Now from our board her smile is gone,
And from our hearth her song.
We miss that farewell laugh of hers,
With its light joyous sound;
And the kiss between the balusters,
When good-night time comes round.
And empty is her little bed,
And on her pillow there
Must never rest that cherub head
With its soft silken hair.
But often as we wake and weep,
Our midnight thoughts will roam,
To visit her cold, dreamless sleep,
In her last narrow home.
