A little child!-how long she lived, Bright-featured, as the July sun So, LILY, from those July hours, A Tuscan Lily,—only white, As Dante, in abhorrence Of red corruption, wished aright We could not wish her whiter,-her This July creature thought perhaps She sat upon her parents' laps And mimicked the gnat's humming ; Said "father," "mother"-then left off, Her hair had grown just long enough Babes! Love could always hear and see And do not thou forbid them." So, unforbidding, have we met, And gently here have laid her, Though winter is no time to get The flowers that should o'erspread her : We should bring pansies quick with spring, Rose, violet, daffodilly, And also, above everything, White lilies for our Lily. Nay, more than flowers, this grave exacts,-Glad, grateful attestations Of her sweet eyes and pretty acts, With calm renunciations. Her very mother with light feet Should leave the place too earthy, Saying, “The angels have thee, Sweet, Because we are not worthy." But winter kills the orange-buds, The gardens in the frost are, Poor earth, poor heart,—too weak, too weak Poor heart!-what bitter words we speak Sustain this heart in us that faints, The wind that swept them out of sin, On the shut door that let them in, "To us, us also, open straight! The outer life is chilly; Are we too, like the earth, to wait -Oh, my own baby on my knees, Too well my own heart understands,— And hair of Lily's colour ! But God gives patience, Love learns strength, And Hope itself can smile at length Love, strong as Death, shall conquer Death, Renouncing yet victorious. Arms, empty of her child, she lifts With spirit unbereaven,— "God will not all take back His gifts; My Lily's mine in Heaven. "Still mine! maternal rights serene Not given to another! The crystal bars shine faint between The souls of child and mother. "Meanwhile," the mother cries, “content ! Its sweetness following where she went, "Well done of God, to halve the lot, "To us, this grave,—to her, the rows "For her, to gladden in God's view,- "Grow fast in Heaven, sweet Lily clipped, "While none shall tell thee of our tears, These human tears now falling, Till, after a few patient years, One home shall take us all in “Child, father, mother-who, left out? “Some smiling angel close shall stand And bear a LILY in his hand, For death's ANNUNCIATION. LITTLE MATTIE. DEAD! Thirteen a month ago ! Just so young but yesternight, By those eyelids pale and close Now she knows what Rhamses knows. Cross her quiet hands, and smooth Down her patient locks of silk, Cold and passive as in truth Drew along a marble floor; But her lips you cannot wring Into saying a word more, "Yes," or "No," or such a thing: |