To Mrs. J. C. Bucklin, by Her Father.
My child, why weepest thou? Are these drawn lines of sorrow alone thy garlands? Why this dreary awe, this languishing on all around you? But hush, these are the foot-prints of Death; he has indeed been with you in his uncertain rounds. The deep, reposing influences indicate his path. I will not dare to question a mother's love, so strange and inexplicable in power, and so mysterious in operation, gentle as the breathing of the memory, ungovernable as the whirlwind in its frenzy, tender as the angel of sympathy, yet stronger than the bands of Death, it is painful to witness such a cloud of sorrow resting on one so young as you, without an atheistic questioning, the all-wise purposes of our Father in heaven.
Your own lovely babe you so fondly adored,
Death's torn from the heart of her mother,
So full was your soul of a mother's deep love,
You would gladly have died to restore her.
Poor fragile, fading, short-lived flow'r,
She was bright and lovely for an hour.