It was a sad and lovely sight
They call'd us to behold,
That infant forehead high and fair,
Those beauteous features sculptured rare,
Yet breathless all, and cold.
Heard it in dreams, an angel voice
Soft as the zephyr's tone?
The yearning of a Mother mild
To clasp once more her three months' child
But a few days her own?
Just a few days of wasting pain
She linger'd by its side,
And then consign'd to stranger arms
The frail unfolding of the charms
She would have watch'd with pride.
Yet happy babe! to reach a home
Beyond all sorrowing cares,
Where none a Mother's loss can moan
Or seek for bread, and find a stone,
Or fall in fatal snares.
Thrice happy,—to have pass'd away
Ere Time's sore ills invade,—
From fragrant buds that drooping shed
Their life-sigh o'er thy coffin-bed—
To flowers that never fade.