Classic Poem

She sat alone beside the couch of death,
And looked upon the features of her child;
The silken curls lay on its velvet cheek,
And as she stooped to kiss those parted lips
From which the ruby tints had scarcely fled,
It seemed as if her own sweet lullaby
Had hushed it to a soft and gentle sleep.
She clasped its little hands upon its breast,
And then in melancholy accents said:—
Oh no! it cannot be, thou art not dead!
Look up, my daughter! let me see again
Those laughing eyes in their long lashes hid;
'Tis hard to give thee up, in one short hour
To feel the hopes of years for ever crushed,
And severed one by one, those tender cords
That round the fibres of my heart were twined,
Till with my very life they seemed to blend.
Oh! there are wounds which time alone must heal,
And tears which only heaven can wipe away.
Thy mother's hand a pencil sketch shall draw
Of thee, my child, so beautiful and young;
For I would keep thine image near me still.
A moment, and the painful task begun,
She had been weeping bitterly, but now
All trace of tears had vanished from her cheek;
And she prayed earnestly to God for strength.
Nor was that prayer unheard. A still small voice
Had whispered consolation to her heart;
A hand unseen, to firmness nerved her own,
And soon her infant's picture was complete.