Down from the soft stars, in their tranquil glory,
Shall look thy dead child with a ghastly stare;
That shape shall haunt thee in its cerements gory,
And scourge thee back from heaven—its home is there!
13.
Lifeless—how lifeless!--see, oh see, before me
It lies cold—stiff!--O God!--and with that blood
I feel, as swoops the dizzy darkness o'er me,
Mine own life mingled—ebbing in the flood—
Hark, at the door they knock—more loud within me—