290 THE PALE BELL OF THE HEATH. 



I shall not again see the sweet infant bell of 

 the heath rise up, without a tear for the gentle 

 babe, through whose blue veins flowed blood not 

 alien to me and mine, and whose lovely aspect 

 frequently comes before me, in the silent hour, to 

 melt my heart into sympathy with those who 

 owned a much nearer tie : but I will look up, and 

 rejoice ; for precious is her lot, and her rest is very 

 glorious. 



" Beautiful baby ! art thou sleeping 



Ne'er to unclose that beaming eye ? 

 Deaf to the voice of a mother's weeping, 



All unmoved by a father's sigh ! 



Wilt thou forsake the breast that bore the 



Seeking a lone, a distant spot, 

 To bid the cold, damp sod close o'er thee, 



Amid the slumb'rers who waken not !" 



Mother, loved mother, I am not sleeping ; 



Father, look up to the soft blue sky ; 

 Where the glittering stars bright watch are keeping, 



Singing and shining, there am I. 



Warm was the tender breast that bore me ; 



'Twas sweet, my mother, to rest with thee : 

 But I was chosen — thou must restore me. 



To the fonder bosom that bled for me. 



I lingered below, till just discerning 



My father's voice, and my mother's smile ; 



Love's infant lesson my heart was learning, 

 But oft my spirit was sad the while. 



