ON THE DEATH OF TWO LITTLE CHILDREN

[ZaunköniG]

ON THE DEATH OF TWO LITTLE CHILDREN

Ah ! bitter chance ! no hand the blow could ward !
Nor shield from harm her little guileless breast,
New to this perilous world, and daily prest
To a fond mother's heart ; her lot seems hard ;
But lo ! her face is calm—a gentle tone
Seems murmuring from those lips that breathe no more,
' Come, little sister, mark'd for heaven before !
I crave that hand, yet smaller than mine own,
That baby-hand, to clasp again in mine !'
Sweet spirit ! as thou wishcst, it shall be ;
Death drops his wing on younger heads than thine,
Though thine is of the youngest ; soon to thee
The little sister of thy soul shall come
And one low funeral bell shall bring ye home !