The Mother's Lament

My own little darling -- dead!
The dove of my happiness fled!
    Just Heaven, forgive,
    But let me not live
Now my poor babe is dead:

No more to my yearning breast
Shall that sweet mouth be prest,
    No more on my arm
    Nestled up warm
Shall my fair darling rest:

Alas, for that dear glazed eye,
Why did it dim or die?
    Those lips so soft
    I have kiss'd so oft
Why are they ice, oh why?

Alas, little frocks and toys,
Shadows of bygone joys,--
    Have I not treasure
    Of bitterest pleasure
In these little frocks and toys?

O harrowing sight to behold
That marble-like face all cold,
    That small cherish'd form
    To be flung to the worm,
Deep in the charnel-mould!

Where is each heart-winning way,
Thy prattle, and innocent play?
    Alas, they are gone,
    And left me alone
To weep for them night and day:

Yet why should I linger behind?
Kill me too,-- death most kind:
    Where can I go
    To meet thy blow
And my sweet babe to find?

I know it, I rave half-wild!
But who can be calm and mild
    When the deep heart
    Is riven apart
Over a dear dead child?

I know it, I should not speak
So boldly,-- I ought to be meek,
    But love, it is strong;
    And my spirit is wrong,--
Help me, my God! I am weak!