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A LITTLE CHILD'S MONUMENT.
If a child so fair, so good,
Were a waif on Lethe's flood,
If a soul-source of feeling, seeing,
Were blotted from the realms of being!
She from all delight would start,
With such a horror at her heart,
She would reel dissolved, and faint
With deep dishonour of the taint!
The very girders of her hall
Crushed, her stately floor would fall.
Ourselves are the foundation stone;
If thought fail, the world is gone;
All were ruined, wanting one.
But all the valley sings!
Nature rises on immortal wings!
And soaring, lo! she sings! she sings!
There is no death!
She saith.
O Spring! O Spring! O Southern Spring!
What a triumphal song you sing!
Valley of Taggia, 1880.
