Now months and years in quick succession flew, And joys increased, and still affection grew. For what is youth's first love to wedded joy? Or what the transports of the ardent boy To the fond husband's bliss, which, day by day, Lights up his spirit with affection's ray? Man knows not what love is, till all his cares The partner of his bosom soothes and shares-- Until he find her studious to please-- Watching his wishes!--Oh, 'tis acts like these That lock her love within his heart, and bind Their souls in one, and form them of one mind. Love flowed within their bosoms as a tide, While the calm rapture of their own fireside Each day grew holier, dearer; and esteem Blended its radiance with the glowing beam Of young affection, till it seemed a sun Melting their wishes and their thoughts as one. XII. Eight years passed o'er them in unclouded joy, And now by Helen's side a lovely boy, Looked up and called her, Mother; and upon The knee of Edmund climbed a little one-- A blue-eyed prattler--as her mother fair. They were their parents' joy, their hope, their care; But, while their cup with happiness ran o'er, And the long future promised joys in store, Death dropped its bitterness within the cup, And its late pleasant waters mingled up With wailing and with woe. Like early flowers, Which the slow worm with venomed tooth devours, The roses left their two fair children's cheeks, Or came and went like fitful hectic streaks, As day by day they drooped: their sunny eyes Grew lustreless and sad; and yearning cries-- Such as wring life-drops from a parent's heart-- Their lisping tongues now uttered. The keen dart Of the unerring archer, Death, had sunk Deep in their bosoms, and their young blood drunk; Yet the affection of the children grew, As its dull, wasting poison wandered through Their tender breasts; and still they ever lay With their arms round each other. On the day That ushered in the night on which they died, The boy his mother kissed, and fondly cried, "Weep not, dear mother!--mother, do not weep! You told me and my sister, death was sleep-- That the good Saviour, who from heaven came down, And who for our sake wore a thorny crown-- You often told us how He came to save Children like us, and conquered o'er the grave; And I have read in his blessed book, How in his hand a little child He took, And said that such in heaven should greatest be: Then, weep not, mother--do not weep for me; For if I be angel when I die, I'll watch you, mother--I'll be ever nigh; Where'er you go, I'll hover o'er your head; Then, though I'm buried, do not think me dead! But let my sister's grave and mine be one, And lay us by the pretty marble stone, To which our father dear was wont to go, And where, in spring, the sweet primroses blow; Then, weep not, mother!" But she wept the more; While the sad father his affliction bore Like one in whom all consciousness was dead, Save that he wrung his hands and rocked his head, And murmured oft this short and troubled prayer--