Where thou art gone.
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting word shall pass my lips no more!"
The death of children is a great bereavement of home. Behold that little
blossom withered in its mother's arms! See those tears which flood her eyes
as she bends in her deep grief over the grave of her cherished babe! Go,
fond parents, to that little mound, and weep! It is well to do so; it is
well for thee in the twilight hour to steal around that hallowed spot, and
pay the tribute of memory to your little one, in flooding tears. There
beneath those blooming flowers which the hand of affection planted, it
sweetly sleeps. It bids adieu to all the scenes and cares of life. It just
began to taste the cup of life, and turned from its ingredients of
commingled joy and sorrow, to a more peaceful clime. Cold now is that
little heart which once beat its warm pulses so near to thine; hushed is
now that sweet voice that once breathed music to your soul. Like the
folding up of the rose, it passed away; that beautiful bud which bloomed
and cheered your heart, was transplanted ere the storm beat upon it:--
"Death found strange beauty on that polished brow,
And dashed it out--
There was a tint of rose
On cheek and lip. He touched the veins with ice,
And the rose faded.
Forth from those blue eyes
There spake a wishful tenderness, a doubt
Whether to grieve or sleep, which innocence
Alone may wear.
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