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Thine up-turned eyes glazed over,
Like hare-bells wet with dew;
Their pupils darkly blue.
Thy little mouth half open
Thy soft lip quivering,
Thy soul was fluttering.
Mount up, immortal essence!
Young spirit, haste, depart ! And is this death!-dread thing!If such thy visiting,
How beautiful thou art !
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!
Ay, 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 earth,
Oh! these are recollections
Round mother's hearts that cling
That mingle with the tears
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.
Thou’rt safe in heaver, my dove!
The Everlasting One.
“ And when the hour arrives
From flesh that sets me free,
An oak’s gnarled root, to roof the cave,
With Gothic fret-work sprung, Where jewelled fern, and arum leaves,
And ivy garlands hung.
And close beneath came sparkling out,
From an old tree's fallen shell, A little rill, that clipt about
The lady in her cell.
And there, methought, with bashful pride,
She seemed to sit and look, On her own maiden loveliness,
Pale imaged in the brook.
No other flower, no rival grew
Beside my pensive maid ;
In solitude and shade.
No sunbeam on that fairy pool
Darted its dazzling light-
Might tremble there at night.
No ruffling wind could reach her there
No eye, methought, but mine,
Had spied her secret shrine.
And there was pleasantness to me
In such belief-cold eyes,
Profane her mysteries.
Long time I looked, and lingered there,
Absorbed in still delight,
THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED.
TREAD softly-bow the head
In rev’rent silence bow-
Is passing now.