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Rh

is the tint of bloom, That decks thy brow, my child; And bright thine eye looks forth from sleep, Still eloquent and mild; But she, who would have joy'd    Those opening charms to see, And clasp'd thee in her sheltering arms With rapture—where is she?

To heed thine every want The watch of Love is near, And all thy feeble plaints are heard With sympathy sincere; Yet she, to whom that care Had been most deeply dear, Who bare thee on her ceaseless prayer, The mother—is not here.

Soon will these lips of rose Their new-born speech essay, But when thy little hopes and fears Win forth their lisping way, The ear that would have lov'd    Their dove-like music best, Lies mouldering in the lowly bed Of death's unbroken rest.

Babe!—tho' thou may'st not call Thy mother from the dead, Yet canst thou learn the way she went, And in her footsteps tread;