The Ouachita telegraph., 1872-05-25
LINES IN MEMORY Of MY LOST CHILD.
by GEORGE D. PRENTICE.

My child; my dear lost child! Il fathers
Touched by the holy wand of memory,
Would in this hour Of loneliness and gloom,
When not sound is borne upon the air.
And not star is visible i'll heaven,
Hold sweet communion with thy soul.
Thou vast most beautiful! mover looked
On thee but with heart Of pride; thy curls
And thy dark eyes-dark as the midnight
And soft as twilish. waters, flashed and
In 81 Grange, wild beauty, yet thy tears were
far ..-.z, .-r
More freauent tina" thy smiles, Thy wall
Came oftcner on our hearts, than thy dear
cry
Were months of suffering-ay, thy cup OF
Life was bitter, bitter, but thon vast
Not doomed to drain it, for u God of Mercy
soon let it pass from thee.
Oh! how well my child
Do remember that all n,onrnfnl day
When thy young mother bore thy wasting
form
With breaking heart and streaming eyes,
In the W vain hope to save the dear young life
TO which the tendriis of her own were
With one wild pressure Of thy little form
To my sad heart, and u frantic kiss
Wrung from an aching brain, I said fare
Alas my boy, never saw thee more
In a strange land, far from thy own dear
But with the holy ministries Of love
Around thy couch, thy little being passed, =,
To mingle with the skies from whence it
came,
Oh! in that hour my child, thy last of earth,
Did not a thought Of thy poor fathers love,
Soften the anguish Of thy parting soul,
And We're not thy dear little arms out
TO meet % his fond caress? ?
Thou sleepest child!
Where the broad Missouri rolls its wild,
And have never gazed upon thy grave
No tears of deep affection ever blend
With the soft dews and gentle rains that fall
But oh! the spot is hallowed. There the
The ,S5s;s:y SSiS$s young spring, gently throws her
wreaths of buds and blossoms. There at
The viewless spirit of the zephyr breathes
It's holiest whisperings III the springing
Grass, as If communing with thee-there
the birds
And pour
Their sweet, unearthly melodies, and there,
too,
At the soft twilight hour young angels come
TO hover DER tho spot on silver wings,
And mark it with shining footprints.
Thou
Art gone my child! a sweet and holy bud
Is shaken from the rose-tree of our hopes
But yet we should not mourn. 'Tis joy to
know
That thou hast gone in thy young innocence
And purity and beauty, from a dark,
Ungentle world, where many snares beset
The path of manhood. Ay! tits Joy 10 know
That the Eo1ian Tyre of thy young soul
Gives out it's music in the Eden choir,
Unvisited by earths cold bitter winds,
Its poisonous dews, its fogs, its wintry rains,
It's tempests and its lightnings.
My sweet child!
Thou art no more 4 blossom of the eartlt
But oh! the thought of thee is yet a spell
On our sad spirits; it's IL lovely flower
On memory's lonely stream, n holy star
In retrospection's sky-a rainbow glean
Upon the tempest clouds OF life. Our hearts,
Our stricken hearts, lean to thee, and then
They lean to heaven--for thou art there.
Yes thou
And thy young sister are in heaven, while
We are lingering on the earth's cold desert
...r Come,
Te two sweet cherubs of Gods Paradise
Who wander side by side and hand in hand
Among the Aramanthine flowers that bloom
Beside the living waters, coIue, oh come!
Sometimes upon your bright and snowy
wings
In the deep watches Of the silent night,
And breathe into Our souls tho holy words
That We have heard the angels speak
In heaven.