Ah! cold at my feet thou art sleeping, my boy...

Ah! cold at my feet thou art sleeping, my boy, And I press on thy pale lips, in vain, the fond kiss; Earth opens her arms to receive thee, my joy! And all I have suffered was nothing to this: The day-star of hope 'neath thine eyelids is sleeping, No more to arise at the voice of my weeping.

Oh, how art thou changed!—since the light breath of morning Dispelled the soft dew-drops in showers from the tree, Like a beautiful bud, my lone dwelling adorning, Thy smiles called up feelings of rapture in me; I thought not the sunbeams all brightly that shone On thy waking, at eve would behold me alone.

The joy that flashed out from those death-shrouded eyes, That laughed in thy dimples and brightened thy cheek, Is quenched—but the smile on thy pale lip that lies, Now tells of a joy that no language can speak. The fountain is sealed, the young spirit at rest, Ah, why should I mourn thee—my loved one—my blest?