THE DYING MOTHER TO HER

INFANT.

BY CAROLINE BOWLES.

I.

My baby! my poor little one! thou'st come a winter flower,

A pale and tender blossom, in a cold, unkindly hour; Thou comest with the snow-drop-and, like that pretty

thing,

The power that called my bud to life, will shield its blossoming.

II.

The snow-drop hath no guardian leaves, to fold her safe

and warm,

Yet well she bides the bitter blast, and weathers out the

The Everlasting Arms, my babe, will never let thee go!

III.

The snow-drop-how it haunts me still!— hangs down her fair young head,

So thine may droop in days to come, when I have long been dead;

And yet the little snow-drop's safe!—from her instruction seek,

For who would crush the motherless, the lowly, and the meek!

IV.

Yet motherless thou 'lt not be long-not long in name, my life!

Thy father soon will bring him home another, fairer

wife;

Be loving, dutiful to her ;-find favour in her sight; oh my child! forget thine own poor mother

But never, quite.

V.

But who will speak to thee of her ?—the gravestone at

her head,

Will only tell the name and age, and lineage of the

dead:

But not a word of all the love-the mighty love for

thee,

That crowded years into an hour of brief maternity.

VI.

They'll put my picture from its place, to fix another there,

That picture, that was thought so like, and yet so passing

fair!

Some chamber in thy father's house they 'll let thee call thine own,

Oh! take it there-to look upon, when thou art all alone !

VII.

To breathe thine early griefs unto-if such assail my

child;

To turn to, from less loving looks, from faces not so mild. Alas! unconscious little one!-thou 'lt never know

that best,

That holiest home of all the earth, a living mother's breast!

VIII.

I do repent me now too late, of each impatient thought, That would not let me tarry out God's leisure as I ought;

I've been too hasty, peevish, proud,—I longed to go

away;

And now I'd fain live on for thee, God will not let me

stay.-..

IX.

Oh! when I think of what I was, and what I might have

been

A bride last year, and now to die! and I am scarce nineteen ;

And just, just opening in my heart a fount of love, so

new,

So deep!-could that have run to waste?-could that have failed me too?

X.

The bliss it would have been to see my daughter at my side!

My prime of life scarce overblown, and hers in all its

pride;

To deck her with my finest things-with all I've rich and rare!

To hear it said-"How beautiful! and good as she is

fair!"

XI.

And then to place the marriage crown upon that bright ́ young brow!

Oh no! not that 't is full of thorns! alas, I'm wander

ing now.

This weak, weak head! this foolish heart! they'll cheat me to the last :

I've been a dreamer all my life, and now that life is past.

XII.

Thou 'lt have thy father's eyes, my child!—oh! once how kind they were!

His long black lashes-his own smile, and just such raven hair;

But here's a mark-poor innocent!—he 'll love thee for 't the less,

Like that upon thy mother's cheek, his lips were wont to

press.

XIII.

And yet, perhaps, I do him wrong-perhaps, when all 's

forgot

But our young loves, in memory's mood, he'll kiss this

very spot.

Oh, then, my dearest! clasp thine arms about his neck

full fast,

And whisper, that I blessed him now, and loved him to the last.

XIV.

I've heard that little infants, converse by smiles and

signs,

With the guardian band of angels, that round about

them shines,

Unseen by grosser senses,-beloved one! dost thou

Smile so upon thy heavenly friends, and commune with them now?

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