Are almost resting on thy downy cheek,
And thy fair head reposes on my breast,
My lonely, sorrowing, bereaved breast,
With all the silent, touching eloquence
So often felt where not a word is said.
Thy angel mother may be near thee, boy!
Communing with thy untaught spirit now,
And teaching thee the rudiments of thought.
O Death! thou art th’ ambassador of Heaven,
To wean us from th’ allurements of the world;