Classic Poem

Hither come, at close of day,
And o'er this dust, sweet Mothers, pray!
A little infant lies within,
Who never knew the name of sin,
Beloved, — bright, — and all our own;
Like morning fair, — and sooner flown!

No leaves or garlands wither here,
Like those in foreign lands;
No marble hides our dear one's bier,
The work of alien hands:
The months it lived, the name it bore,
The silver telleth, — nothing more!

No more; — yet Silence stalketh round
This vault so dim and deep;
And Death keeps watch without a sound,
Where all lie pale and sleep;
But palest here and latest hid,
Is He — beneath this coffin lid.

How fair he was — how very fair,
What dreams we pondered o'er,
Making his life so long and clear,
His fortunes flowing o'er;
Our hopes — (that he would happy be,
When we ourselves were old,)
The scenes we saw, or hoped to see —
They're soon and sadly told.
All was a dream! — It came and fled;
And left us here, — among the dead!

Pray, Mothers, pray, at close of day,
While we, sad parents, weep alway!
Pray, too (and softly be 't and long),
That all your babes, now fair and strong,
May blossom like — not like the rose,
For that doth fade when summer goes;
('Twas thus our pretty infant died,
The summer and its mother's pride!)
But, like some stern enduring tree,
That reacheth its green century,
May grow, may flourish — then decay,
After a long, calm, happy day,
Made happier by good deeds to men,
And hopes in heaven to meet again!

Pray! — From the happy prayer is due;
While we — ('tis all we now can do!)
Will check our tears, and pray with you.