Young mother, he is gone,
His dimpled cheek no more will touch thy breast,
No more the music tone
Float from his lips to thine all fondly prest;
His smile and happy laugh are lost to thee,
Earth must his mother and his pillow be.
His was the morning hour,
And he hath passed in beauty from the day,
A bud not yet a flower;
Torn in its sweetness from the parent spray,
The death wind swept him to his soft repose,
As frost in spring-time blights the early rose.
Never on earth again
Will his rich accents charm thy listening ear,
Like some Æolian strain,
Breathing at even-tide serene and clear;
His voice is choked in dust, and on his eyes
The unbroken seal of peace and silence lies.
And from thy yearning heart,
Whose inmost core was warm with love for him,
A gladness must depart,
And those kind eyes with many tears be dim;
While lonely memories, an unceasing train,
Will turn the raptures of the past to pain.
Yet, mourner, while the day
Rolls like the darkness of a funeral by,
And hope forbids one ray
To stream athwart the grief-discoloured sky,
There breaks upon thy sorrow's evening gloom
A trembling lustre from beyond the tomb.
'Tis from the better land:
There, bathed in radiance that around them springs,
Thy lov'd one's wings expand,
As with the quoiring cherubim he sings;
And all the glory of that God can see,
Who said on earth to children, "Come to me."
Mother! thy child is blest;
And though his presence may be lost to thee,
And vacant leave thy breast,
And missed a sweet load from thy parent knee--
Though tones familiar from thine ear have passed,
Thou'lt meet thy first-born with his Lord at last.