I've seen thee in thy beauty,
A thing all health and glee,
But never then wert thou
So beautiful as now,

Baby! thou seem'st to me.

Mount up, immortal essence, Young spirit haste, depart! And is this death? dread thing! If such thy visiting,

How beautiful thou art!

Thine upturned eyes, glaz'd over, Like harebells wet with dew, Already veil'd and hid

By the convulsed lid,

Their pupils darkly blue.

Thy little mouth half open,
Thy soft lip quivering,
As if (like summer air
Ruffling the rose-leaves) there
Thy soul were fluttering.

Oh, I could gaze for ever
Upon that waxen face:
So passionless, so pure,
The little shrine was sure

An angel's dwelling-place.

Thou weepest, childless mother:

Aye, weep; 'twill ease thine heartHe was thy first-born son,

Thy first, thine only one,
"Tis hard from him to part.

"Tis hard to lay thy darling Deep in the damp cold earthHis empty crib to see,

His silent nursery,

Once gladsome with his mirth.

To meet again in slumber

His small mouth's rosy kiss;
Then waken'd with a start
By thine own throbbing heart,
His twining arms to miss.

To feel half conscious why,
A dull, heart-sinking weight,
Till memory on the soul
Flashes the painful whole,
That thou art desolate.

And then to lie and weep,

And think the live-long night, (Feeling thine own distress) With accurate greediness

Of every past delight.

G

I've seen thee in thy beauty,
A thing all health and glee,
But never then wert thou
So beautiful as now,

Baby! thou seem'st to me.

Mount up, immortal essence, Young spirit haste, depart! And is this death? dread thing! If such thy visiting,

How beautiful thou art!

Thine upturned eyes, glaz'd over, Like harebells wet with dew, Already veil'd and hid

By the convulsed lid,

Their pupils darkly blue.

Thy little mouth half open,
Thy soft lip quivering,
As if (like summer air
Ruffling the rose-leaves) there
Thy soul were fluttering.

Oh, I could gaze for ever
Upon that waxen face:
So passionless, so pure,
The little shrine was sure

An angel's dwelling-place.

Thou weepest, childless mother:

Aye, weep; 'twill ease thine heart— He was thy first-born son,

Thy first, thine only one,

"Tis hard from him to part.

"Tis hard to lay thy darling Deep in the damp cold earthHis empty crib to see,

His silent nursery,

Once gladsome with his mirth.

To meet again in slumber
His small mouth's rosy kiss
Then waken'd with a start
By thine own throbbing heart,
His twining arms to miss.

To feel half conscious why,

A dull, heart-sinking weight,
Till memory on the soul
Flashes the painful whole,
That thou art desolate.

And then to lie and weep,

And think the live-long night, (Feeling thine own distress) With accurate greediness

Of every past delight.

G

Of all his winning ways,

His pretty, playful smiles, His joy at sight of thee,

His tricks, his mimicry,

And all his little wiles.

Oh! these are recollections

Round mothers' hearts that cling

That mingle with the tears

And smiles of after years,
With oft awakening.

But thou wilt then, fond mother!
In after years look back;
(Time brings such wondrous easing)
With sadness not unpleasing,

E'en on this gloomy track.

Thou'lt say, "My first-born blessing!

It almost broke my heart When thou wert forced to go;

And yet, for thee, I know, 'Twas better to depart.

"I look around, and see,
The evil ways of men;
And, oh, beloved child!
I'm more than reconciled

To thy departure then.