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FUNEREAL SKETCHES, No. XIV, 

 THE INFANT'S TOMB. 



Is it the dew on yonder stone 



That day's young beams are shining on ? 



Nay but here with morning's ray 



Came there one to weep and pray, 



One with whom none other's tear 



Drops upon her infant's bier : 



One who travailed, shame betide, 



Ere the Church had called her bride 



Came to snatch a short relief 



From her solitude of grief. 



HE, who holy legends tell 



Shrived the woman at the well, 



HE be with her, undefined, 



With the mother and her child. 



Cease, fond mourner, why complain? 

 For a child to die is gain : 

 Hardly nature owned it thine 

 When the angel called, " Resign I" 

 Scarcely pillowed on thy breast 

 When away to be at rest ; 

 But the heaving of a wave 

 Twixt its cradle and the grave, 



Cease, young mother, why complain ? 

 For a child to die is gain. 

 When its spirit, yet with thee, 

 Only fluttered to be free ; 

 Then the hour to weep and fast. 

 Ere a living soul had passed : 

 Now the dead no longer mourn 

 Passed the irrevocable bourne ; 

 Now the gushing tear-drop dry 

 It was good the child should die. 



No. XV. ONE OF THE DISPERSED. 



I saw him range o'er earth's wide space, 



A stranger in each land, 

 That no where found his resting place 



In camp, or court, or strand. 

 He moved midst those of martial mien, 



Yet not in arms as they ; 

 A figure /'/?, not of, the scene 



Of war and war's array. 



