FARE-THEE-WELL, our last and fairest, Dear wee Willie, fare-thee-well! He, who lent thee, hath recall'd thee Back with him and his to dwell. Fifteen moons their silver lustre Only o'er thy brow had shed, When thy spirit join'd the seraphs, And thy dust the dead. Like a sunbeam, through our dwelling Shone thy presence bright and calm! Thou didst add a zest of pleasure; To our sorrows thou wert balm; -- Brighter beam'd thine eyes than summer; And thy first attempt at speech Thrill'd our heart-strings with a rapture Music ne'er could reach. As we gazed upon thee sleeping, With thy fine fair locks outspread, Thou didst seem a little angel, Who from heaven to earth had stray'd; And, entranced, we watch'd the vision, Half in hope and half affright, Lest what we deem'd ours, and earthly, Should dissolve in light. Snows o'ermantled hill and valley, Sullen clouds begrim'd the sky, When the first, drear doubt oppress'd us, That our child was doom'd to die! Through each long night-watch, the taper Show'd the hectic of thy cheek; And each anxious dawn beheld thee More worn out, and weak. 'Twas even then Destruction's angel Shook his pinions o'er our path, Seized the rosiest of our household, And struck Charlie down in death -- Fearful, awful, Desolation On our lintel set his sign; And we turn'd from his sad death-bed Willie, round to thine! As the beams of Spring's first morning Through the silent chamber play'd, Lifeless, in mine arms I raised thee, And in thy small coffin laid; Ere the day-star with the darkness Nine times had triumphant striven, In one grave had met your ashes, And your souls in Heaven! Five were ye, the beauteous blossoms Of our hopes, and hearts, and hearth; Two asleep lie buried under -- Three for us yet gladden earth: Thee, our hyacinth, gay Charlie, Willie, thee our snow-drop pure, Back to us shall second spring-time Never more allure! Yet while thinking, oh! our lost ones! Of how dear ye were to us, Why should dreams of doubt and darkness Haunt our troubled spirits thus? Why, across the cold dim churchyard Flit our visions of despair? Seated on the tomb, Faith's angel Says, "Ye are not there!" Where then are ye? With the Saviour Blest, for ever blest, are ye, Mid the sinless, little children, Who have heard his "Come to me!" 'Yond the shades of death's dark valley, Now ye lean upon his breast, Where the wicked dare not enter, And the weary rest! We are wicked -- we are weary -- For us pray, and for us plead; God, who ever hears the sinless, May through you the sinful heed; Pray that, through Christ's mediation, All our faults may be forgiven; Plead that ye be sent to greet us At the gates of Heaven! |