Ah! bitter chance! no hand the blow could ward!
Nor shield from harm her little guileless breast,
New to this perilous world, and daily prest
To a fond mother's heart; her lot seems hard;
But lo! her face is calm—a gentle tone
Seems murmuring from those lips that breathe no more,
‘Come, little sister, mark'd for heaven before!
I crave that hand, yet smaller than mine own,
That baby-hand, to clasp again in mine!’
Sweet spirit! as thou wishest, it shall be;
Death drops his wing on younger heads than thine,
Though thine is of the youngest; soon to thee
The little sister of thy soul shall come
And one low funeral bell shall bring ye home!