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42
DYING.
The mother lays her sleeping baby down
With light soft kiss, and lingering
embrace.
The lids are closed upon the eyes of brown,
The light has faded from the silent face.
Yet sighs she not, nor weeps,
Well knowing he but sleeps,
And morning shall renew his strength
and grace.
II.
And evening soothes the weary day to rest;
With dainty jewelled hands she softly lays
Her mantle o’er the cradle in the west—
All crimson ’tis, and shot with golden rays.
Yet yields she not to sorrow;
Full well she knows to-morrow
Day shall awake again to joy and praise.
