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'Tis hard to lay thy darling Deep in the damp cold earth—

His empty crib to see,

His silent nursery,

Once gladsome with his mirth.

To meet again in slumber

His small mouth's rosy kiss; Then, waken'd with a start By thine own throbbing heart, His twining arms to miss.

To feel (half conscious why)

A dull, heart-sinking weight, 'Till memory on thy soul Flashes the painful whole That thou art desolate.

And then to lie and weep,

And think the livelong night, (Feeding thine own distress With accurate greediness) Of every past delight.

Of all his winning ways, His pretty, playful smiles,

His joy at sight of thee,

His tricks, his mimicry, And all his little wiles !