Pocahontas and Other Poems (New York)/Death of an Infant in its Mother's Arms
DEATH OF AN INFANT IN ITS MOTHER'S ARMS.
"He slumbers long, young mother,
Upon thy gentle breast;
Thou'rt weary now with watching,
Sweet mother, go to rest:
There seems no pain to stir him,
His peril sure is past,
For see, his soft hand clasp'd in thine,
He heeds nor storm nor blast.
Why dost thou gaze so wildly?
Why strain thy strong embrace?
Unlock thy fearful clasping,
And let me see his face:"
So down that mother laid him,
In her agony of care,
And kiss'd the cold and marble brow
With calm and fix'd despair.
"Oh weep! there's holy healing
In every gushing tear,
Nor question thus that beauteous clay,
The angel is not here;
No shut of rose at eventide
Was with a peace so deep,
As o'er thy darling's closing eye
Stole his last dovelike sleep."
Where best he loved to hide him,
In that dear sheltering spot,
Just there his tender spirit pass'd—
Pass'd, and she knew it not:
His fond lip never trembled,
Nor sigh'd the parting breath,
When strangely for his nectar'd draught
He drank the cup of death.
Full was thy lot of blessing,
To charm his cradle-hours,
To touch his sparkling fount of thought,
And breathe his breath of flowers,
And take thy daily lesson
From the smile that beam'd so free,
Of what in holier, brighter realms,
The pure in heart must be.
No more thy twilight musing
May with his image shine,
When in that lonely hour of love
He laid his cheek to thine;
So still and so confiding
That cherish'd babe would be,
So like a sinless guest from heaven,
And yet a part of thee.
But now his blessed portion
Is o'er the cloud to soar,
And spread a never-wearied wing
Where sorrows are no more;
With cherubim and seraphim
To tread the ethereal plain,
High honour hath it been to thee
To swell that glorious train.