Lydia Huntley Sigourney
Henrietta Selden Colt, - Poem by Lydia Huntley Sigourney
Daughter of Col. SAMUEL and Mrs. ELIZABETH COLT, died January 20th,
1862, aged 7 months and 27 days.
THE MOURNING MOTHER.
A tomb for thee, my babe!
Dove of my bosom, can it be?
But yesterday in all thy charms,
Laughing and leaping in my arms,
A tomb and shroud for thee!
A couch for thee mine own,
Beneath the frost and snow!
So fondly cradled, soft and warm,
And sheltered from each breath of storm,
A wintry couch for thee!
Thy noble father's there,
But the last week he died,
He would have stretched his guarding arm,
To shelter thee from every harm,
Nestle thee to his side.
Thy ruby lip skill'd not
That father's name to speak,
Yet wouldst thou pause mid infant play
To kiss his picture when away,
The love smile on thy cheek.
Thy brother slumbereth there,
Our first-born joy was he,
Thy little sister sweetly fair,
Most like a blessed bird of air;
A goodly company.
Only one left with me,
_One_ here and _three_ above,
Be not afraid my precious child!
The Shepherd of the lambs is mild,--
Sleep in His love.
Thou never saw'st our Spring
Unfold the blossoms gay;
But thou shalt see perennial bowers,
Enwreathed with bright and glorious flowers,
That cannot fade away.
And thou shalt join the song,
That happy cherubs pour,
In their adoring harmonies:
I'll hear ye, darlings, when I rise
To that celestial shore.
Yes, there's a Saviour dear,--
Keep down, oh tears, that swell!
A righteous God who reigns above,
Whose darkest ways are truth and love,
He doeth all things well.
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