So, day by day, his skill he plied,
With still increasing zeal,
For well the glittering coin he knew,
Those fairy fingers gladly threw,
Would buy his frugal meal.
But then! alas, there came a change
Unheeded was his song,
And in his upraised, earnest eye
There dwelt a silent wonder, why
The baby slept so long.
That polished brow, those lips of Rose
Beneath the flowers were laid—
But where the music never tires,
Amid the white-robed angel choir
The happy spirit stray'd.
Yet lingering at the accustom'd place
That minstrel ply'd his art,
Though its soft symphony of words
Convulsed with pain the broken chords
Within a mother's heart.
They told him that the babe was dead
And could return no more,
Dead! Dead!—to his bewildered ear,
A foreign language train'd to hear—
The sound no import bore.
At length, by slow degrees, the truth
O'er his young being stole,
And with sad step he went his way
No more for that blest babe to play,
The tear-drop in his soul.
City of Washington, May 24, 1858.