Poetry: Thoughts Of A Slave At The Grave Of Her Child

Thy sleep is sweet. The dcws of night Fall on thy house of rest, Where holy flowers - liko angels bright With beauty biest, Aro watching o'er thee with delight! Thy Bleep is calm. And novv, as wlicn Thou slept in bloom and pride, Unknown ot death's awfu! pain, I'm at thy eide, In woo that tears may not restrain. Grief for thy loss! since thou hast gone Earlh eeema bereft of üght Love's Ia9t bright star with theo went down, And sorrows night Hath gathered o'or rae chili aad lone. But thou my child, 'tia woll with theo, I woüld not cali thee back, And havo thee taste the misery Of beinga' track , For all the joy 'twould give to me. I would not wake thee, lovely boy, To live a elave with me - To be unhallowed passion's toy- To flee and feel That death alone mustbring ihee joy. Oh! knowest thou, cliild,thy mothers' wrong How dnrksome be her lot- How she must labor "hard and long," How thora ia not, For her no love- no cheering song? Ah! no, my child, thou dost notknow; Be happy then and rest: Thy toil-worn mother bendoth low Her aching breast, Above tby sleep with love and woe; And thanks tho rightoous hand that gave And early took from her, Thou treaBUie of the voiceless grave, Thou withered flower My tears and weeping could not eavo. For thou hast been a thing to love, To purify my heart, To inake me as a pinioned dove Long to depart, From earth to free vorlds above. Oh to that free and glorious home Wherothou art now, my child; Soon shall thy outcast mother come To meet thy mild, Sweet apirit in immortal bloom.