THE PALE BELL OF THE HEATH. 291 



Hast thou ne'er marked thy baby dreaming ? 



Sawest thou no radiance o'er her spread ? 

 Oh, rich and pure were the bright rays streaming, 



The songs of heaven were round my bed. 



And when I waked, though thou wast bending 

 With looks almost like my sunny dreams, 



My soul to that softer world was tending, 



My home was still with the songs and beams. 



My brothers — my heart grew daily fonder, 

 When gazing on each young smiling face, 



But I yearned for the brothers, who, sparkling yonder, 

 Had sung to me eft, from their beauteous place. 



Oh I many a lonely hour of weeping 



Thou hast past by their forsaken bed ; 

 But sorrow no more, they are not sleeping, 



They linger not with the silent dead. 



Could I show thee mine, and my brothers' dwelling, 

 Could I sing thee the songs we are singing here, 



Could I tell thee the tales that we are telling, 

 Oh where, my mother, would be thy tear! 



For we on milk-white wings are sailing, 

 Where rainbow tints surrounded the throne, 



And while bright seraphs their eyes are veiling, 

 We see the face of the Holy Oi:e. 



And we, when heaven's high arch rejoices 

 With thundering notes of raptured praise, 



We, thine own babes, with loud sweet voices, 

 The frequent hallelujah raise. 



And we, oh, we are closely pressing 



Where stands the Lamb for sinners slain >- ■ 



