VI
Mark! where of rosy health bereft,
Emaciate, wan, and deadly pale,
(The blood its dying cheek has left,)
The infant lifts its feeble wail.
VII
And see! the mother by its side,
Sunk in dejected, tearless woe,
As thro’ its veins, the ebbing tide,
She views decline, with gradual flow.
VIII
No sorrowing accent strikes the ear,
To tell the workings of her grief;
No sob is heard, no falling tear
Her burning anguish yield relief.
IX
’Tis silent, as the breathless air,
In midnight’s deepest, darkest shade;
The hopeless shadow of despair,
That asks not consolation’s aid.
X
The infant dies!—remember’d still,
More precious to the soul it seems,
For glowing mem’ry paints at will
A thousand charms in fancy’s dreams.