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them why the verdant turf was riven From its young rooting, and with silent lip They pointed to a new-made chasm among The marble-pillared mansions of the dead. Who goeth to his rest in yon damp couch? The tearless crowd past on—"'t was but a babe." A babe!—And poise ye in the rigid scales Of calculation, the fond bosom's wealth? Rating its priceless idols as ye weigh Such merchandise as moth and rust corrupt, Or the rude robber steals? Ye mete out grief, Perchance, when youth, maturity or age, Sink in the thronging tomb, but when the breath Grows icy on the lip of innocence Repress your measured sympathies, and say "'T was but a babe." What know ye of her love Who patient watcheth till the stars grow dim Over her drooping infant, with an eye Bright as unchanging Hope if his repose? What know ye of her woe who sought no joy More exquisite, than on his placid brow To trace the glow, of health, and drink at dawn The thrilling lustre of his waking smile? Go ask that musing father why yon grave So narrow, and so noteless might not close Without a tear?