A CHILD'S GRAVE AT FLORENCE. A.A.E.C. BORN, JULY, 1848. DIED, NOVEMBER, 1849. I. OF English blood, of Tuscan birth, What country should we give her? Instead of any on the earth, The civic Heavens receive her. II. And here among the English tombs III. A little child!-how long she lived, Alone to see a second. IV. Bright-featured, as the July sun And splendours, with her birth begun, V. So, LILY, from those July hours, VI. A Tuscan Lily,—only white, The lilies of his Florence. VII. We could not wish her whiter,- her VIII. This July creature thought perhaps She sate upon her parents' laps And mimicked the gnat's humming; IX. Said 'father,' 'mother'-then left off, X. Babes! Love could always hear and see 'Let little children come to Me, And do not thou forbid them.' XI. So, unforbidding, have we met, The flowers that should o'er-spread her: XII. We should bring pansies quick with spring, Rose, violet, daffodilly, And also, above everything, White lilies for our Lily. XIII. Nay, more than flowers, this grave exacts,— Glad, grateful attestations. Of her sweet eyes and pretty acts, With calm renunciations. Her XIV. very mother with light feet Should leave the place too earthy, Saying, The angels have thee, Sweet, XV. But winter kills the orange-buds, XVI. Poor earth, poor heart,―too weak, too weak To miss the July shining! Poor heart!-what bitter words we speak When God speaks of resigning! XVII. Sustain this heart in us that faints, We catch up wild at parting saints XVIII. The wind that swept them out of sin, On the shut door that let them in, We beat with frantic gesture,— XIX. To us, us also, open straight! The outer life is chilly; Are we too, like the earth, to wait XX. -Oh, my own baby on my knees Clasped close with stronger pressure! XXI. Too well my own heart understands.- And hair of Lily's colour! XXII. But God gives patience, Love learns strength, And Faith remembers promise. And Hope itself can smile at length On other hopes gone from us. XXIII. Love, strong as Death, shall conquer Death, Through struggle, made more glorious: This mother stills her sobbing breath, Renouncing yet victorious. |