  With ceaseless sorrow, uncontroll'd, The mother mourn'd her lot; She wept, and would not be consoled, Because her child was not. She gazed upon its nursery floor, But there it did not play; The toys it loved, the clothes it wore, All void and vacant lay. Her house, her heart, were dark and drear, Without their wonted light; The little star had left its sphere, That there had shone so bright. Her tears, at each returning thought, Fell like the frequent rain; Time on its wings no healing brought, And wisdom spoke in vain. Even in the middle hour of night She sought no soft relief, But, by her taper's misty light, Sate nourishing her grief. 'Twas then a sight of solemn awe, Rose near her like a cloud; The image of her child she saw, Wrapp'd in its little shroud. It sate within its favourite chair, It sate and seem'd to sigh, And turn'd upon its mother there A meek imploring eye. "O child! what brings that breathless form Back from its place of rest? For well I know no life can warm Again that livid breast. "The grave is now your bed, my child— Go slumber there in peace." "I cannot go," it answer'd mild, "Until your sorrow cease. "I've tried to rest in that dark bed, But rest I cannot get, For always with the tears you shed, My winding-sheet is wet. "The drops, dear mother, trickle still Into my coffin deep; It feels so comfortless and chill I cannot go to sleep." "O child those words, that touching look, My fortitude restore; I feel and own the blest rebuke, And weep my loss no more." She spoke, and dried her tears the while; And as her passion fell, The vision wore an angel smile, And look'd a fond farewell. |
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