"O, let me slumber—let me sleep!"
The fair-haired boy in whispers sighed;
Then sank upon the snowy steep,
While friendly hearts to rouse him tried.
"O, let me sleep!" and as he spake
His weary spirit sought its rest,
And slept, no more again to wake,
Save haply there—among the blest.
Sleep—sleep—sleeping:
He sleeps beneath the starry dome;
And far away his mother, weeping,
Waits his coming home.
We raised him gently from the snow,
And bore him in our arms away.
The sweet white face is smiling now—
Made whiter by the moon's pale ray.
And when the sun in beauty rose
We laid him in the silent tomb,
Where mountains with eternal snows
High up tow'rds Heaven grandly loom.
Sleep—sleep—sleeping:
He sleeps beneath the starry dome;
And far away his mother, weeping,
Waits his coming home. (a)
(a) The late Artemus Ward, in his "American Drolleries," tells a pathetic story of a boy, a German, who died from the severity of the weather, while travelling, in company with others, in the vicinity of the Rocky Mountains. He was the only child of a widowed mother. The intense cold induced drowsiness; and while being forced along by his companions with the view of counteracting the effects of the frost, his continued cry, uttered with soul-stirring plaintiveness, was: "Let me sleep—let me sleep." Unable to save him, his companions permitted him to lie down and "fall asleep in the snow"—a sleep from which he never woke.
WITH THE RAIN.
A Dewdrop and a Violet
Were wedded on an April day;
The Dewdrop kisst his pretty pet,
Then by the Sun was called away.
The drooping flow'r bewailed her choice;
"My love will never come again!"
But from the clouds came answering voice:
"I come, my darling, with the rain!"
The Violet had jealous fears,
And told her sorrow to the Rose:
"Say—is he faithful?" O those tears!
The blossom whispered—"Goodness knows!"
The recreant dewdrop came at last,
And eased his love of all her pain:
With kisses sweet her sorrows passed,
And life anew came with the rain.
ODE:
ON THE DEATH OF A VERY INTIMATE FRIEND, A YOUNG SURGEON, WHO DIED FROM FEVER, AFTER ATTENDING A PATIENT.
'Tis sad indeed to chant a dirge of gloom—
To weave the cypress for a youthful brow:
To moan a requiem o'er an early tomb,
And sing in sorrow as I'm singing now.
While men raise mausoleums to die brave—
With flimsy flatt'ries gilded tombs besmear—
We need no banner o'er our Brother's grave
To tell what wealth of worth lies buried there.
Gone! and the word re-echoes with a sound
Mournful as muffled bells upon the wind;
Sad in its influence on all around—
Telling of griefs that still remain behind.
A thousand hearts may throb with tender swell—
Though every soul in deepest sorrow grieves,
How much he was beloved they only tell;
But who shall gauge the yawning breach he leaves?