Classic Poem

ON THE DEATH OF HER TWO LITTLE BOYS (HER ALL) .

O H , mother bereaved! from thy desolate hearth
The treasures have vanish'd that bound thee to earth;
The green clinging tendrils, that wound round thy heart,
Thou deem'd not so soon they should wither and part.

Thy golden hair'd Willie, frank, fearless, and free,
With merry blue eyes, ever sparkling with glee;
Fair child of six summers, the fond father's joy —
The mother's first blessing, her beautiful boy.

At morn we beheld him bright, sportive, and gay,
With dear little Johnnie, his brother, at play —
At eve his white forehead was throbbing with pain
When laid on the bed he ne'er rose from again.

How deep was the scarlet that flushed on his cheek;
How wandering and wild the few words he could speak;
A ministering angel thou moved round his bed,
And closed the blue eyes when the spirit had fled.

And now little Johnnie, sweet prattling child,
The last of thy treasures, the loving and mild!
Ere the first moon had waned, lay cold on his cot,
Like Rachel thou wept, for thy children were not.

Yet weep not, sad mother! thy treasures were given
By Him who resumed them, their Father in heaven;
To thee He had lent them, they still were His own;
He call'd, and the doves to His bosom have flown.

The cot and the cradle are empty and still,
The red-breast is watching for crumbs on the sill;
Impatient he pecks at the dim frozen pane,
But Willie the crumbs will not scatter again.

Peace, peace to thee, mother! thou never shalt know
The heart-wringing anguish, the mourning and woe
Of mothers who weep by the desolate hearth,
Of perishing children, the outcasts of earth.

More deep than the wail o'er thy innocent dead,
More bitter the tears that for lost ones are shed,
For thine with the angels of light ever dwell,
'Tis well with thy children, with thee it is well.