Page:Poems for Children Sigourney 1836.pdf/80

  A guiding-cherub to that home Where every tear is dry.

 

No more my little brother's voice, At early morn I hear— No more his sparkling eyes rejoice To see our mother near.

They took him where our grandsire slept, On pillow green and fair, And laid him in that lowly bed, And turn'd, and left him there.

But then, his never-dying soul On glorious wing did soar, Where pain that made his cheek so pale Can never vex him more. 