Not in the balmy dream of downy rest;
In Death’s embrace the shrouded babe reposed,
It slept the dreamless sleep that wakes no more!
A low sigh struggled in her heaving breast,
But yet she wept not—hers was the deep grief
The heart in its dark desolation feels;
Which breathes not in impassioned accents wild,
But slowly the warm pulse of life congeals:
A grief, which from the world seeks no relief—
A mother’s sorrow o’er her first-born child!