Select poems / by L.H. Sigourney [electronic resource]

'TWAS BUT A BABE.

I ASKED them why the verdant turf was riven From its young rooting; and with silent lip They pointed to a new-made chasm among The marble-pillared mansions of the dead. Who goeth to his rest in yon damp couch? The tearless crowd pass'd on—"'twas but a babe." A babe!—and poise ye, in the rigid scales Of calculation, the fond bosom's wealth? Rating its priceless idols as ye weigh Such merchandise as moth and rust corrupt Or the rude robber steals? Ye mete out grief, Perchance, when youth, maturity or age, Sink in the thronging tomb; but when the breath Grows icy on the lip of innocence Repress your measured sympathies, and say "'Twas but a babe." What know ye of her love Who patient watcheth, till the stars grow dim, Over her drooping infant, with an eye Bright as unchanging Hope, if his repose? What know ye of her woe who sought no joy

More exquisite, than on his placid brow To trace the glow of health, and drink at dawn The angel-sweetness of his waking smile? Go, ask that musing father, why yon grave, So narrow, and so noteless, might not close Without a tear? And though his lip be mute, Feeling the poverty of speech to give Fit answer to thee, still his pallid brow, And the deep agonising prayer that loads Midnight's dark wing to Him, the God of strength, May satisfy thy question. Ye, who mourn Whene'er yon vacant cradle, or the robes That decked the lost one's form, call back a tide Of alienated joy, can ye not trust Your treasure to His arms, whose changeless care Passeth a mother's love? Can ye not hope When a few hasting years their course have run, To go to him, though he no more on earth Returns to you? And when glad faith doth catch Some echo of celestial harmonies, Archangel's praises, with the high response Of cherubim, and seraphim, oh think— Think that your babe is there.