Page:Poems for Children Sigourney 1836.pdf/76

 Her brow of dimpled beauty, why So like the marble white?" My little ones, ye need no more    To hush the sportive tread, Or whispering, pass the muffled door,—     Your sweetest one is dead.

In vain you'll seek her joyous tone Of tuneful mirth to hear, Nor will her suffering, dove-like moan Again distress your ear. Lost to a mother's pillowing breast, The snow-wreath marks her bed, Her polish'd cheek in earth must rest,— Your sweetest one is dead.

Returning spring, the birds will call Their happy task to take; Vales, verdant trees, and streamlets, all From winter's sleep shall wake, Again your cherished flowers shall bloom Anew their fragrance shed;