She only knew her childhood's flowers And while the heralds played their part "God save the Queen," from hill to mart- She wept, to wear a crown. God save thee, weeping Queen, As those pure tears have moved; The love that guardeth liberties; Yea, wept, to wear its crown. God bless thee, weeping Queen, And fill with better love than earth's, That when the thrones of earth shall be As low as graves brought down, A pierced hand may give to thee, The crown which angels wept to see. To wear that heavenly crown. BARRETT. TO A DYING INFANT. SLEEP, little baby! sleep! Not in thy cradle bed, Yes-with the quiet dead, Oh! many a weary wight, Weary of life and light, Would fain lie down with thee. Flee, little tender nursling! Flee to thy grassy nest; There the first flowers shall blow, Shall fall upon thy breast. Peace! peace! Thy little bosom Labours with shortening breath : Peace! peace! that tremulous sigh Those are the damps of death. : Thine up-turned eyes glazed over, Like hare-bells wet with dew; Already veiled and hid By the convulsed lid, Their pupils darkly blue. Thy little mouth half open- As if like summer air Ruffling the rose leaves, there Thy soul was fluttering. Mount up, immortal essence! If such thy visiting, How beautiful thou art! Oh! I could gaze for ever So passionless, so pure!— An angel's dwelling-place. Thou weepest, childless mother! Ay, weep, 'twill ease thine heart; He was thy first-born son, Thy first, thine only one, 'Tis hard from him to part! "Tis hard to lay thy darling Deep in the damp cold earth, His empty crib to see, His silent nursery, Once gladsome with his mirth. To meet again in slumber, His small mouth's rosy kiss; By thine own throbbing heart, To feel (half conscious why) A dull, heart-sinking weight, Till memory on thy soul That thou art desolate! And then to lie and weep, And think the livelong night (Feeding thine own distress With accurate greediness) Of every past delight; Of all his winning ways, His joy at sight of thee, And all his little wiles! Oh! these are recollections Round mother's hearts that cling That mingle with the tears And smiles of after years, With oft awakening. But thou wilt then, fond mother! E'en on this gloomy track. Thou'lt say, "My first-born blessing, And yet for thee I know, "God took thee in his mercy, And thou art sanctified! "I look around and see The evil ways of men ; And, oh! beloved child! I'm more than reconciled To thy departure then. "The little arms that clasped me, The innocent lips that pressed,Would they have been as pure Till now, as when of yore, I lulled thee on my breast? "Now like a dew-drop shrined Within a crystal stone, |