This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1843 Excerpt: ...why complain?--When death shall cast his blight Over the spirit, then my bones shall rest Beneath these trees--and from thy swelling breast, O'er them thy song shall pour like a rich flood of light. MY CHILD. BY JOHN PIERPONT. I Cannot make him dead! His fair sunshiny head Is ever bounding round my study chair; Yet, ...
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This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1843 Excerpt: ...why complain?--When death shall cast his blight Over the spirit, then my bones shall rest Beneath these trees--and from thy swelling breast, O'er them thy song shall pour like a rich flood of light. MY CHILD. BY JOHN PIERPONT. I Cannot make him dead! His fair sunshiny head Is ever bounding round my study chair; Yet, when my eyes, now dim With tears I turn to him, The vision vanishes--he is not there! I walk my parlour floor, And, through the open door, I hear a footfall on the chamber stair; I'm stepping toward the hall To give the boy a call; And then bethink me that--he is not there! I thread the crowded street; A satchel'd lad I meet, With the same beaming eyes and colour'd hair; And, as he's running by, Follow him with my eye, Scarcely believing that--he is not there! MY CHILD. I know his face is hid Under the coffin lid; Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead; My hand that marble felt; O'er it in prayer I knelt; Yet my heart whispers that--he is not there! I cannot make him dead! When passing by the bed, So long watch'd over with parental care, My spirit and my eye Seek it inquiringly, Before the thought comes that--he is not there f When, at the cool, gray break Of day, from sleep I wake, With my first breathing of the morning air My soul goes up, with joy, To Him who gave my boy, Then comes the sad thought that--he is not there When at the day's calm close, Before we seek repose, I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer, Whate'er I may be saying, I am, in spirit, praying For our boy's spirit, though--he is not there I Not there!--Where, then, is he? The form I used to see Was but the raiment that he used to wear. The grave, that now doth press Upon that cast-off dress, Is but his wardrobe lock'd;--he is not there LAKE SUPERIOR. 129 He lives!--I...
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