At the last they sweetly smiled,
Told it not for gladness;
Would'st thou now recall thy child
To a world of sadness?
It is hard to gather up,
Ties so rudely riven;
But thou'lt find this bitter cup
For thy weal was given.
Kiss again its hands so white,
Kiss its marble forehead;
Soon the grave will hide from sight,
That thou only borrowed.
Thou will meet thy child again,
Where no death or sorrow
Bring their sad to-day of pain,
And their dread to-morrow.
FOOTNOTES:
[L] This poem, in an unfinished form, was published some months ago in Sartain's Magazine. It has since been re-written for the International, and is now much more than before deserving of the applause with which it was received.