Classic Poem

We were weeping round her pillow,
For we knew that she must die:
It was night within our bosoms—
It was night within the sky.

There were seven of us children—
I the oldest one of all;
So I tried to whisper comfort,
But the blinding tears would fall.

On my knee my little brother
Leaned his aching brow and wept,
And my sister's long black tresses
O'er my heaving bosom swept.

The shadow of an awful fear
Came o'er me as I trod,
To lay the burden of our grief
Before the throne of God.

Oh! be kind to one another,
Was my mother's pleading prayer,
As her hand lay like a snow-flake
On the baby's golden hair.

Then a glory bound her forehead,
Like the glory of a crown,
And in the silent sea of death
The star of life went down.

Her latest breath was borne away
Upon that loving prayer,
And the hand grew heavier, paler,
In the baby's golden hair.