I turned to many a withered hope, to years of grief and pain, And the cruel wrongs of a bitter world flashed o'er my boding brain;

I thought of friends, grown worse than cold, of persecuting foes,

And I asked of Heaven if ills like these must mar thy youth's repose!

I gazed upon thy quiet face, half blinded by my tears,— Till gleams of bliss, unfelt before, came brightening on my fears;-

Sweet rays of hope that fairer shone 'mid the clouds of gloom that bound them,

As stars dart down their loveliest light when midnight skies are round them.

My sweet one, my sweet one, thy life's brief hour is o'er,
And a father's anxious fear for thee can fever me no more!
And for the hopes, the sun-bright hopes, that blossomed at
thy birth,-

They too have fled, to prove how frail are cherished things of earth!

'Tis true that thou wert young, my child, but though brief thy span below,

To me it was a little age of agony and woe;

For, from thy first faint dawn of life thy cheek began to fade, And my lips had scarce thy welcome breathed, ere my hopes were wrapt in shade.

Oh the child in its hours of health and bloom that is dear as thou wert then,

Grows far more prized, more fondly loved, in sickness and in

And thus 'twas thine to prove, dear babe, when every hope was lost

Ten times more precious to my soul, for all that thou hadst

cost.

Cradled in thy fair mother's arms, we watched thee, day by

day,

Pale like the second bow of heaven, as gently waste away: And, sick with dark foreboding fears we dared not breathe

aloud,

Sat, hand in hand, in speechless grief, to wait death's coming cloud!

It came, at length,-o'er thy bright blue eye the film was gathering fast,

And an awful shade passed o'er thy brow, the deepest and the

last;

In thicker gushes strove thy breath,-we raised thy drooping

head;

A moment more—the final parg—and thou wert of the Dead!

Thy gentle mother turned away to hide her face from me,
And murmured low of Heaven's behests, and bliss attained by

thee;

She would have chid me that I mourned a doom so blest as thine,

Had her own deep grief burst forth in tears as wild as mine!

We laid thee down in thy sinless rest, and from thine infant brow

Culled one soft lock of radiant hair, our only solace now; Then placed around thy beauteous corpse, flowers, not more fair and sweet,—

Twin rose-buds in thy little hands, and jasmine at thy feet.

I turned to many a withered hope, to years of grief and pain, And the cruel wrongs of a bitter world flashed o'er my boding brain;

I thought of friends, grown worse than cold, of persecuting foes,

And I asked of Heaven if ills like these must mar thy youth's repose!

I gazed upon thy quiet face, half blinded by my tears,— Till gleams of bliss, unfelt before, came brightening on my fears;-

Sweet rays of hope that fairer shone 'mid the clouds of gloom that bound them,

As stars dart down their loveliest light when midnight skies are round them.

My sweet one, my sweet one, thy life's brief hour is o'er, And a father's anxious fear for thee can fever me no more! And for the hopes, the sun-bright hopes, that blossomed at thy birth,

They too have fled, to prove how frail are cherished things of earth!

'Tis true that thou wert young, my child, but though brief thy span below,

To me it was a little age of agony and woe;

For, from thy first faint dawn of life thy cheek began to fade, And my lips had scarce thy welcome breathed, ere my hopes were wrapt in shade.

Oh! the child in its hours of health and bloom that is dear as thou wert then,

Grows far more prized, more fondly loved, in sickness and in

I turned to many a withered hope, to years of grief and pain, And the cruel wrongs of a bitter world flashed o'er my boding brain;

I thought of friends, grown worse than cold, of persecuting foes,

And I asked of Heaven if ills like these must mar thy youth's repose!

I gazed upon thy quiet face, half blinded by my tears, — Till gleams of bliss, unfelt before, came brightening on my fears;-

Sweet rays of hope that fairer shone 'mid the clouds of gloom that bound them,

As stars dart down their loveliest light when midnight skies are round them.

My sweet one, my sweet one, thy life's brief hour is o'er,
And a father's anxious fear for thee can fever me no more!
And for the hopes, the sun-bright hopes, that blossomed at
thy birth,-

They too have fled, to prove how frail are cherished things of earth!

"Tis true that thou wert young, my child, but though brief thy span below,

To me it was a little age of agony and woe;

For, from thy first faint dawn of life thy cheek began to fade, And my lips had scarce thy welcome breathed, ere my hopes were wrapt in shade.

Oh! the child in its hours of health and bloom that is dear as thou wert then,

Grows far more prized, more fondly loved, in sickness and in