Dead Boy-Babe, The

There is mourning in the hall, 
Where, beneath the snowy pall, 
Waiting for the hungry grave, 
Like a lily on the wave, 
Sleeps an infant's tiny form, 
Now with life no longer warm.

Like a pearly morning Rose, 
Sweetly taketh he repose, 
Wet with Sorrow's holy dew, 
Which the night of trial drew 
From the overbending sky 
Of a mother's earnest eye.

Who may fathom now her grief? 
Who may dare to bring relief? 
Who can reach her wounded heart, 
Nor inflict a deeper smart?

Far away, ye thoughtless, go, 
Break not on her hallowed wo: 
Leave her bending, and alone. 
At the footstool of the Throne, 
Where amidst the burning Seven, 
Holy Jesus maketh Heaven. 
He will pour the healing balm, 
And her troubled spirit calm; 
He will bless the tears which fall 
On the cold and virgin pall, 
And her wasting grief control 
To the whitening of her soul.

There is mourning o'er the tomb; 
Where the Bud which could not bloom 
Ere its sun went down the west, 
Folds its beauty into rest, 
Till its life again be born 
In that sweet Reviving Morn, 
When the Sun of Righteousness 
Rises to redeem and bless.

There are tears which have been wrung 
From the bosoms of the young, 
To whom holy Love had brought 
Deeper bliss than Hope had thought,
Fading now in wo severe, 
More than Doubt had dared to fear. 
Weep they sorely in the cot 
Where their little one is not, 
With a keenness of distress, 
Nigh to utter wretchedness.

There the little cradle lies, 
Whence their Baby's dawning eyes 
Shed his blissful memories through 
Their divine and deepening blue; 
Were his snowy blanket, there, 
Spread with less maternal care, 
You might almost deem that he 
Curled beneath it dreamingly. 
But, alas! a Mother knows 
In that still, and cold repose, 
There is nothing like the rest 
Of the heaving little breast, 
Which, above the folded pillow, 
Mounted like a tiny billow.

There his silent playthings are, 
And his baby-robes are there: 
Gently lay them all away, — 
Wo's the mother's heart to-day :

Now her darling boy is gone. 
They are sad to look upon; 
And they waken grief afresh, 
Wearying to soul and flesh. 
In a day of fairer dawn,
When her keener pang is gone, 
And her spirit's deep distress 
Mellowed into quietness, 
These shall be mementos dear 
Of his brief abiding here, 
Calling to her inward eyes 
Sadly pleasing memories.

There is sorrow in the cot — 
Sorrow that despaireth not; 
For the mourners, faint and sad, 
May look upward and be glad. 
Lo; in Heaven is holy joy 
Over the returning boy: — 
Wingless wanderer to earth, 
From the country of his birth, 
Turning backward, ere his feet 
Weary of the coming heat, 
And the ever-thronging strife, 
In the solemn inarch of life.

Folded in the arms of love, 
To the blooming realms above, 
Homeward he hath gone away, 
And, no longer swathed in clay, 
Lightly prints the rosy street 
With the tread of infant feet. 
While along the green he trips, 
From the blooming of his lips, 
Melodies for odors, fill 
All the airs which o'er him thrill.

Cherubs young and heavenly fair. — 
See, they gather round him there; 
Hand in hand, a lovely ring, 
O'er the blue they flit and sing, 
And, around the sinless boy, 
Clap their little wings for joy. 
Sweeter sound the lyres of Heaven 
As a gladder song is given. 
While the ever-blooming groves, 
Where the choir seraphic roves,
Back from every quivering limb, 
Echo to a nobler hymn.