IN MEMORIAM. They are not dead-my darlings- The rustle of their garments soft, The tones that murmuring fell, In cadence sweet, upon my ear, Forbid a last farewell. Oh! many are the fancies And cheat my love the while. Sometimes I am returning From a little absence-long To the dear ones who are watching For their mother's safe return. I see them far off, coming, First of all, my darling Mary, With her bright and happy brow; The sunlight of her beauty Is beaming on me now. And by her side another, With his wealth of golden hair; I can see his sunny ringlets Tossing wildly in the air. Alas! it is but dreaming, My darlings are at rest; But the mother-heart is yearning To fold them to her breast. Oh! my heart is full of memories, Mine eyes are full of tears; God only knows the anguish, 'Mid the calmness which appears. THE ANGEL OF MY WEARY HOUR. TO SARAH MARIE. An angel strayed from Eden's bowers, It chanced upon our parent cot, At the sweet hour of eventide; Our little ones-a circle sweet Were gathered to the mother side. With raised eyes and clasped hands, Their hearts went in one choral strain, Oh! God protect our father dear, And bring him safely back again. |