RICHARD ELY COLLINS,

It was a sad and lovely sight

They call'd us to behold,

That infant forehead high and fair,

Those beauteous features sculptured rare,

Yet breathless all, and cold.

Heard it in dreams, an angel voice

Soft as the zephyr's tone?

The yearning of a Mother mild

To clasp once more her three months’ child

But a few days her own?

Just a few days of wasting pain

She linger'd by its side,

And then consign'd to stranger arms

The frail unfolding of the charms

She would have watch'd with pride.

Yet happy babe! to reach a home

Beyond all sorrowing cares,

Where none a Mother's loss can moan

Or seek for bread, and find a stone,

Or fall in fatal snares.

Thrice happy,— to have pass'd away

Ere Time's sore ills invade,—

From fragrant buds that drooping shed

Their life-sigh o'er thy coffin-bed —

To flowers that never fade.