For the infant she bears on her breast;
More true than a sister’s or brother’s;
Oh, then in that love let us rest!
LINES ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG MAN.
A mother bends over a darling son,
Whose work on earth is nearly done;
And she cries in accents of bitter woe,
“My darling one, can I let thee go?
Can I give thee back to the Power that gave?
Must this manly form rest in the grave?