Hither, my child!
There lives his mother’s image—her soft eyes,
So large and full and dove-like; her brown hair,
So rich and silken, and her cheek of rose!
Oh! what a fate was hers! But yesterday,
All youth and hope and beauty; and to-day,
A banquet for the cold and creeping worm!
But far above the grave her spirit dwells,
Among the white-robed circles of the blest:
In that bright clime where Faith and Fancy soar,