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T** L** H**,
SIX YEARS OLD, DURING A SICKNESS.
Sleep breathes at last from out thee,
My little, patient Boy;
I sit me down, and think
Of all thy winning ways;
That I had less to praise.
Thy sidelong pillowed meekness,
Thy thanks to all that aid,
The little trembling hand
That wipes thy quiet tears, These, these are things that may
demand Dread memories for years.
Sorrows I've had, severe ones,
I will not think of now;
And calmly, midst my dear ones,
But when thy fingers press
And pat my stooping head, I cannot bear the gentleness,
The tears are in their bed.
Ah, first-born of thy mother,
When life and hope were new, Kind playmate of thy brother, Thy sister, father too;
My light, where'er I go,
My bird, when prison bound, My hand in hand companion,—no,
My prayers shall hold thee round.
To say “ He has departed"
“ His voice”—“ his face"-is gone;" To feel impatient-hearted,
Yet feel we must bear on;
Yes, still he's fixed, and sleeping !
This silence too the while
Something divine and dim
Seems going by one's ear, Like parting wings of Cherubim,
“ We've finished here."