THE SONG OF THE DEAD CHILD.

By the light of their waxen tapers, I saw not ever a tear,

For the child in its bridal garment, the little dead child on the bier.

Some child of the poor;— I wonder, was it glad that the years were done,

This flower that fell in spring tide, and had hardly looked on the sun?

But an hour before the dawning there will come one down on the night,

With the wings and the brows of an angel, in wonder-robes of white.

He will smile in your eyes of wonder, he will take your hand in his hand,

And gather you up in his arms and pass from the sleeping land.

Then after a while, at morning, you will come to the lands that lie

On the other side of the sunrise between the cloud and the sky,

And here is the place of resting with the wings of your angel furled,

For the feet that are tired with travel in the dusty ways of the world.

And here is the children’ s meeting, the length of a summer’ s day,

You will gather you crowns of roses, in the deep meadow lands at play.

While up through the clouds dividing, like a sweet bewildering dream,

You will watch the wings of the angels drift by in an endless stream;

Such marvellous robes are o’ er them, and whiter are some than snows,

And some like the April blossom, and some like the pale primrose.

And many go by with weeping, for ever, the long night through,

The tears of the sorrowing angels fall over the earth in dew;

Till your eyes grow weary of wonder as you sit in the long cool grass,

And many will bend and kiss you of the wonderful forms that pass;

Then at last it will seem like even when you waken, and hand in hand

You will pass with your angels guiding, to the utmost verge of the land;

And I think you will hear far voices growing musical there, and loud,

As you pass, with an unfelt swiftness, from luminous cloud to cloud;

Till the light shall turn to a glory, that seemed but a lone faint star,

That will be the gate of Heaven, where the souls of the children are.