94
poems.
THE CHILD'S LAMENT.
As I walked with noiseless footsteps
Through the village of the dead,
Where the tall grass scarcely rustled
'Neath the pressure of my tread,
Lying on the cold, damp ground,
A little form was seen—
A child not more than ten years old.
O God, what could it mean?
Through the village of the dead,
Where the tall grass scarcely rustled
'Neath the pressure of my tread,
Lying on the cold, damp ground,
A little form was seen—
A child not more than ten years old.
O God, what could it mean?
Little arms the tombstone clasped,
Her lips breathed forth the name,
Weeping eyes were raised to heaven,
From whence our Saviour came;
Golden curls were crushed in anguish,
As I see them in my dreams,
When the beauty of the starlight
Lingers like the morning beams.
Her lips breathed forth the name,
Weeping eyes were raised to heaven,
From whence our Saviour came;
Golden curls were crushed in anguish,
As I see them in my dreams,
When the beauty of the starlight
Lingers like the morning beams.
She softly raised her eyes to heaven,
Murmured "Mother," low in tone;
Murmured "Mother," low in tone;
