Hush, mourning mother, wan and pale! <br />No sobs—no grieving now: <br />No burning tears must thou let fall <br />Upon that cold still brow; <br />No look of anguish cast above, <br />Nor smite thine aching breast, <br />But clasp thy hands and thank thy God— <br />Thy darling is at rest. <br /> <br />Close down those dark-fringed, snowy lids <br />Over the violet eyes, <br />Whose liquid light was once as clear <br />As that of summer skies. <br />Is it not bliss to know what e’er <br />Thy future griefs and fears, <br />They will be never dimmed like thine <br />By sorrow’s scalding tears? <br /> <br />Enfold the tiny fingers fair, <br />From which life’s warmth has fled, <br />For ever freed from wearing toil— <br />The toil for daily bread: <br />Compose the softly moulded limbs, <br />The little waxen feet, <br />Spared wayside journeys long and rough, <br />Spared many a weary beat. <br /> <br />Draw close around the lifeless form <br />The shreds of raiment torn, <br />Her only birthright—just such rags <br />As thou for years hast worn; <br />Her earthly dower the bitter crust <br />She might from pity crave, <br />Moistened by tears—then, final gift, <br />A pauper’s lowly grave. <br /> <br />Now, raise thy spirit’s gaze above! <br />See’st thou yon angel fair, <br />With flowing robes and starry crown <br />Gemming her golden hair? <br />Changed, glorified in every trait, <br />Still with that beauty mild; <br />Oh! mourning mother, thou dost know <br />Thine own, thy late-lost child. <br /> <br />An heir to heaven’s entrancing bliss, <br />Veiled in its golden glow, <br />Still thinks she of the lonely heart <br />Left on this earth below. <br />Courage!—not long thy weary steps <br />O’er barren wastes shall roam, <br />Thy daring prays the Father now <br />To quickly call thee home!<br /><br />Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-death-of-the-pauper-child/
