51
Look on yon child, it droops the head,
Its knees are bowed with pain;
It mutters from its wretched bed,
'Oh I let me sleep again!'
Alas! 'tis time, the mother's eyes
Turn mournfully away;
Alas! 'tis time, the child must rise,
And yet it is not day.
*****
"Good God! to think upon a child
That has no childish days,
No careless play, no frolics wild,
No words of prayer and praise!
Man from the cradle,—’tis too soon
To earn their daily bread,
And heap the heat and toil of noon
Upon an infant's head.
*****
"Oh England though thy tribute waves
Proclaim thee great and free;
While those small children pine like slaves,
There is a curse on thee!"
The "Spirit and the Angel of Death" is equally beautiful and impressive, and contains a lofty lesson on important subjects; but we must leave it, with many others, to those who shall search for themselves among these rich embodyings of truth and wisdom. The purest and most valuable feelings of our nature are often appealed to. The writer's address to her own dead father, at the conclusion of "The Troubadour," is exquisitely beautiful, but it should be read in its own connection with the sweet thoughts that precede its introduction. We therefore give a few
E 2
