  I see her kneeling at the mound Of baby Bruce, And placing on the turfless ground Sweet flow’rs, profuse, I see the pearls of bitter tears Fall on their leaves; Alas, that one in tender years So sorely grieves! Yes, he was fairer than the flow’rs Of rarest hue, His smile sweet as the morning hour’s Gleam in the dew, And as we looked into his eyes So large and brown, It seemed an angel from the skies Had just come down. What heaven gave, again it took— Its ways are good, But now in pity it does look On motherhood,— Whose love so young, so pure, so deep, Eats sorrow’s bread,— And whispers: “Woman do not weep, He is not dead.” |
|
