The Death Of The Pauper Child

Hush, mourning mother, wan and pale!
  No sobs—no grieving now:
No burning tears must thou let fall
  Upon that cold still brow;
No look of anguish cast above,
  Nor smite thine aching breast,
But clasp thy hands and thank thy God—
  Thy darling is at rest.

Close down those dark-fringed, snowy lids
  Over the violet eyes,
Whose liquid light was once as clear
  As that of summer skies.
Is it not bliss to know what e’er
  Thy future griefs and fears,
They will be never dimmed like thine
  By sorrow’s scalding tears?

Enfold the tiny fingers fair,
  From which life’s warmth has fled,
For ever freed from wearing toil—
  The toil for daily bread:
Compose the softly moulded limbs,
  The little waxen feet,
Spared wayside journeys long and rough,
  Spared many a weary beat.

Draw close around the lifeless form
  The shreds of raiment torn,
Her only birthright—just such rags
  As thou for years hast worn;
Her earthly dower the bitter crust
  She might from pity crave,
Moistened by tears—then, final gift,
  A pauper’s lowly grave.

Now, raise thy spirit’s gaze above!
  See’st thou yon angel fair,
With flowing robes and starry crown
  Gemming her golden hair?
Changed, glorified in every trait,
  Still with that beauty mild;
Oh! mourning mother, thou dost know
  Thine own, thy late-lost child.

An heir to heaven’s entrancing bliss,
  Veiled in its golden glow,
Still thinks she of the lonely heart
  Left on this earth below.
Courage!—not long thy weary steps
  O’er barren wastes shall roam,
Thy daring prays the Father now
  To quickly call thee home!