A LITTLE, rudely sculptured bed, | |
| With shadowing folds of marble lace, | |
| And quilt of marble, primly spread | |
| And folded round a baby’s face. | |
| Smoothly the mimic coverlet, | 5 |
| With royal blazonries bedight, | |
| Hangs, as by tender fingers set | |
| And straightened for the last good-night. | |
| |
| And traced upon the pillowing stone | |
| A dent is seen, as if to bless | 10 |
| The quiet sleep, some grieving one | |
| Had leaned, and left a soft impress. | |
| |
| It seems no more than yesterday | |
| Since the sad mother down the stair | |
| And down the long aisle stole away, | 15 |
| And left her darling sleeping there. | |
| But dust upon the cradle lies, | |
| And those who prized the baby so, | |
| And laid her down to rest with sighs, | |
| Were turned to dust long years ago. | 20 |
| |
| Above the peaceful pillowed head | |
| Three centuries brood, and strangers peep | |
| And wonder at the carven bed,— | |
| But not unwept the baby’s sleep, | |
| For wistful mother-eyes are blurred | 25 |
| With sudden mists, as lingerers stay, | |
| And the old dusts are roused and stirred | |
| By the warm tear-drops of to-day. | |
| |
| Soft, furtive hands caress the stone, | |
| And hearts, o’erleaping place and age, | 30 |
| Melt into memories, and own | |
| A thrill of common parentage. | |
| Men die, but sorrow never dies; | |
| The crowding years divide in vain, | |
| And the wide world is knit with ties | 35 |
| Of common brotherhood in pain; | |
| |
| Of common share in grief and loss, | |
| And heritage in the immortal bloom | |
| Of Love, which, flowering round its cross, | |
| Made beautiful a baby’s tomb. | 40 |
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