Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/122

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's a cry from that cradle-bed, The voice of an infant's woe; Hark! hark! to the mother's rushing tread, In her bosom's fold she hath hid his head, And his wild tears cease to flow. Yet he must weep again, And when his eye shall know The burning brine of manhood's pain Or youth's unuttered woe, That mother fair With her full tide of sympathies, alas! may not be there. On earth, the tree of weeping grows Fast by man's side where'er he goes, And o'er his brightest joys, its bitterest essence flows.

But she, from her sweet home So lately fled away, She for whose buried smile the fond heart mourns this day, Hath tasted rapture undefiled; She hath gone to her child—she hath gone to her child, Where sorrow may never come.

He was the precious one, The prayed for, the adored—