ON THE DEATH OF A MOTHER, SOON AFTER HER INFANT SON.
There's a cry from that cradle-bed,
The voice of an infant's woe;
Hark! hark! to the mother's rushing tread,
In her bosom's fold she hath hid his head,
And his wild tears cease to flow.
Yet he must weep again,
And when his eye shall know
The burning brine of manhood's pain
Or youth's unuttered woe,
That mother fair
With her full tide of sympathies, alas! may not be there.
On earth, the tree of weeping grows
Fast by man's side where'er he goes,
And o'er his brightest joys, its bitterest essence flows.
But she, from her sweet home
So lately fled away,
She for whose buried smile the fond heart mourns this day,
Hath tasted rapture undefiled;
She hath gone to her child—she hath gone to her child,
Where sorrow may never come.
He was the precious one,
The prayed for, the adored—
