102

DEATH S DOINGS.

How oft, when lulling thee to sleep,

I've seen thy Mother fondly press thee !How often, kiss away thy tears,And hush thy cries, and calm thy fears,—And when thou still wouldst sob and weep,With what affection she'd caress thee !

For as she watch'd thy opening bloom,Predicting future days of pleasure,She little thought misfortune's blightSo soon would wither her delight;—She dreamt not that an early tomb

Would close upon her infant treasure !

Great were her hopes!—yet, doubtless, fearsWith all her cheering hopes were blended;

For, haply, none like Parents feel

The hopes and fears they'd fain conceal,—

Increasing with increasing years,Till Life and all its cares are ended.

Yet, who could view thy dimpled cheek,

And look for aught but years of gladness;—Or see thy laughing dark-blue eye,