They bore him to his mother, and he lay Upon her knees till noon--and then he died! She had watch'd every breath, and kept her hand Soft on his forehead, and gaz'd in upon The dreamy languor of his listless eye, And she had laid back all his sunny curls, And kiss'd his delicate lip, and lifted him Into her bosom, till her heart grew strong-- His beauty was so unlike death! She leaned Over him now, that she might catch the low Sweet music of his breath, that she had learn'd To love when he was slumbering at her side In his unconscious infancy-- --"So still! 'Tis a soft sleep! How beautiful he lies, With his fair forehead, and the rosy veins Playing so freshly in his sunny cheek! How could they say that he would die! Oh God! I could not lose him! I have treasured all His childhood in my heart, and even now, As he has slept, my memory has been there, Counting like ingots all his winning ways-- His unforgotten sweetness-- --"Yet so still!-- How like this breathless slumber is to death! I could believe that in that bosom now There were no pulse--it beats so languidly! I cannot see it stir; but his red lip!-- Death would not be so very beautiful! And that half smile--would death have left _that_ there? --And should I not have felt that he would die? And have I not wept over him?--and prayed Morning and night for him?--and _could_ he die? --No--God will keep him. He will be my pride Many long years to come, and this fair hair Will darken like his father's, and his eye Be of a deeper blue when he is grown; And he will be so tall, and I shall look With such a pride upon him!--_He_ to die!" And the fond mother lifted his soft curls, And smiled, as if 'twere mockery to think That such fair things could perish-- --Suddenly Her hand shrunk from him, and the color fled From her fix'd lip, and her supporting knees Were shook beneath her child. Her hand had touch'd His forehead, as she dallied with his hair-- And it was cold--like clay!--slow--very slow Came the misgiving that her child was dead. She sat a moment and her eyes were clos'd In a still prayer for strength, and then she took His little hand and press'd it earnestly-- And put her lip to his--and look'd again Fearfully on him--and then, bending low, She whisper'd in his ear, "My son!--My son!" And as the echo died, and not a sound Broke on the stillness, and he lay there still, Motionless on her knee--the truth _would_ come! And with a sharp, quick cry, as if her heart Were crush'd, she lifted him and held him close Into her bosom--with a mother's thought-- As if death had no power to touch him there! * * * * *