miscellaneous poems.
67
With a mother's anxious grief I wept,
To think that, perhaps, while my lov'd one slept,
Her spirit might pass to that heaven above,
Where dwelleth in glory the Power of Love;
But not till you pass through the shades of death,
And I feel no more your gentle breath
On my cheek—soft, glowing and warm, my child,
And miss your sweet looks and accents mild,—
Not till then may you meet with that holy Power,
And I wept to think of our parting hour.
To think that, perhaps, while my lov'd one slept,
Her spirit might pass to that heaven above,
Where dwelleth in glory the Power of Love;
But not till you pass through the shades of death,
And I feel no more your gentle breath
On my cheek—soft, glowing and warm, my child,
And miss your sweet looks and accents mild,—
Not till then may you meet with that holy Power,
And I wept to think of our parting hour.
SONG.
There's a smile on thy lips, Mary,
Like the gleam from a sunny sky
On a mirror'd lake,
When its waters break
Into ripples, and dimple by.
Like the gleam from a sunny sky
On a mirror'd lake,
When its waters break
Into ripples, and dimple by.
There's a tear 'neath thy dropping lid,
Like the dew by a rose-leaf hid,
When the mid-day sun,
From all but that one,
The tears of the night-spirit chid.
Like the dew by a rose-leaf hid,
When the mid-day sun,
From all but that one,
The tears of the night-spirit chid.
