FAINTER her slow step falls from day to day,
Death's hand is heavy on her darkening brow;
Yet doth she fondly cling to earth, and say,
"I am content to die. but, oh! not now!
Not while the blossoms of the joyous spring
Make the warm air such luxury to breathe
Not while the birds such lays of gladness sing;
Not while bright flowers around my footsteps wreathe.
Spare me, great God, lift up my drooping brow!
I am content to die-but, oh! not now!"
The spring hath ripen'd into summer-time,
The season's viewless boundary is past;
The glorious sun hath reach'd his burning prime ;
Oh! must this glimpse of beauty be the last?
"Let me not perish while o'er land and lea
With silent steps the lord of light moves on;
Nor while the murmur of the mountain bee
Greets my dull ear with music in its tone!
Pale sickness dims my eye, and clouds my brow;
I am content to die-but, oh! not now!"
Summer is gone, and autumn's soberer hues
Tint the ripe fruits, and gild the waving corn,
The huntsman swift the flying game pursues,
Shout the halloo, and winds his eager horn.
"Spare me awhile to wander forth and gaze
On the broad meadows and the quiet stream,
To watch in silence while the evening rays
Slant through the fading trees with ruddy gleam! Cooler the breezes play around my brow;
I am content to die-but, oh! not now!"
The bleak wind whistles, snow-showers, far and near,
Drift without echo to the whitening ground;
Autumn hath passed away, and, cold and drear,
Winter stalks on, with frozen mantle bound.
Yet still that prayer ascends :-"Oh! laughingly
My little brothers round the warm hearth crowd,
Our home-fire blazes broad, and bright, and high,
And the roof rings with voices glad and loud;
Spare me awhile! raise up my drooping brow!
I am content to die-but, oh! not now!"
The spring is come again—the joyful spring!
Again the banks with clustering flowers are spread;
The wild bird dips upon its wanton wing:
The child of earth is number'd with the dead!
"Thee never more the sunshine shall awake,
Beaming all redly through the lattice-pane;
The steps of friends thy slumbers may not break,
Nor fond familiar voice arouse again!
Death's silent shadow veils thy darkened brow:
Why didst thou linger?-thou art happier now!"
[Of my Brother's infant Son, February 21, 1839.]
THERE is a sound of laughter light and gay,
And hurried welcomes, as of joyful greeting;
The stir and inurmur of a holiday,
The grouping of glad friends each other meeting:
And in the midst art THOU-thou tiny flower,
Whose coming hath so cheer'd this wintry hour!
Helpless thou liest, young blossom of our love!
The sunshine of fond smiles around thee beaming, Blessings called down on thee from Heaven above, And every heart about thy future dreaming :-Meek peace and utter innocence are now The sole expression of thy baby brow.
Helpless thou liest, thy little waxen face
Eagerly scann'd by our inquiring glances,
Hoping some lovely likeness there to trace,
Which fancy finds, and so thy worth enhances ;
Clothing with thought mature, and power of mind.
Those infant features, yet so faintly lined.
And still thy youthful mother bendeth down
Her large, soft, loving eyes, brimful of gladness,
Her cheek almost as waxen as thine own,
Her heart as innocently free from sadness:
And still a brighter smile her red lip wears,
As each her young son's loveliness declares.
And sometimes as we gaze a sigh is heard,
(Though from the happy group all grief seems banish'd,) As thou recallest, little nestling bird,
Some long familiar face whose light hath vanish'd; Some name, which yet hath power our hearts to thrillSome smile whose buried beauty haunts us still!
Ah! most to Her, the early widowed, come
Thoughts of the blossoms that from earth have perished; Lost to her lone and solitary home,
Though in her brooding memory fondly cherished:-Her little grandson's baby-smiles recall
Not one regretted hope of youth, but all!
Her Son's son lies upon her cradling knee,
And bids her heart return, with mournful dreaming, To her own first-born's helpless infancy,
When hope---youth's guiding star--was brightly beaming;
And he, who died too soon, stood by and smiled,
And bless'd alike the mother and her child.
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