‘NOT LOST, BUT GONE BEFORE.’

My little child, with clustering hair,

Strewn o’er thy dear, dead brow,

Though in the past divinely fair,

More lovely art thou now.

God bade thy gentle soul depart,

On brightly shimmering wings;

Yet near thy clay, thy mother’s heart

All weakly, fondly clings.

My beauteous child, with lids of snow

Closed o’er thy dim blue eyes,

Should it not soothe my grief to know

They shine beyond the skies?

Above thy silent cot I kneel,

With heart all crushed and sore,

While through the gloom these sweet words steal:

‘Not lost, but gone before.’

My darling child, these flowers I lay

On locks too fair, too bright,

For the damp grave-mist, cold and gray,

To dim their sunny light.

Soft baby tresses bathed in tears,

Your gold was all mine own!

Ah, weary months! ah, weary years!

That I must dwell alone.

My only child, I hold thee still,

Clasped in my fond embrace!

My love, my sweet! how fixed, how chill,

This smile upon thy face!

The grave is cold, my clasp is warm,

Yet give thee up I must;

And birds will sing when thy loved form

Lies mouldering in the dust.

My angel child, thy tiny feet

Dance through my broken dreams;

Ah me, how joyous, quaint, and sweet,

Their baby pattering seems!

I hush my breath, to hear thee speak;

I see thy red lips part;

But wake to feel thy cold, cold cheek,

Close to my breaking heart!

Soon, soon my burning tears shall fall

Upon thy coffin lid;

Nor may those tears thy soul recall

To earth—nay, God forbid!

Be happy in His love, for I

Resigned, though wounded sore,

Can hear His angels whispering nigh:

‘Not lost, but gone before.’

Fanny Forrester.

Printed and Published by W. & R. Chambers, 47 Paternoster Row, London, and 339 High Street, Edinburgh.

[Transcriber’s note: The following changes have been made to this text.

Page 47: wa’t to w’at—“know w’at is.”]