Motherless infant, to the quiet sleep

Motherless infant, to the quiet sleep
Of early death descending, thou wilt die
As others sink in slumber, and wilt lie
Erelong within thy narrow grave. To weep
For those who fall like thee befits not, — tears
Are shed on those whom we have watched for years,
Who, in our yielding hearts, have planted deep
The rivets of affection. Thou art fair
And pure as rock-sprung fountains, where they well
Beneath o'erarching roots, and scatter there
Light bubbling dews. Pale infant, thou canst tell
Of pain, but thou art silent, for thy heart
Is calm; Remorse has never barbed a dart
To sting and tear thy vitals, — for to thee
Regret can never come, and thou wilt part
With being as a lock would fall from me.
Thine eyes are closed, thy lip is still and pale,
Thy cheek is deadly wan, or faintly flushed
With hectic gushings; all thy cries are hushed,
Thy breath is silent, as the summer gale
Stealing through withered roses. Thou wilt die,
And never know the thousand ills which wait
The fairest and the brightest, and thine eye
No bitter tears will scald, — thy early fate
Is dealt to thee in mercy; thou wilt go,
Unstained, unspotted, to a better state,
And though thy scanty pilgrimage below
Was weary, often painful, it was free
From all those stings which long have tortured me .
Rate this poem: 


No reviews yet.