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(Apropos of Halloween)

The last sad note hath died away
Of the pealing organ’s sound;
The priest hath said his parting say,
And left the dead with chaplets crowned.

What dead? Upon that bier of roses
Is it a maid in beauty’s bloom?
Or wife, beloved, that there reposes
Calm amid that sepulchral gloom?

The victor chief of hard-earned fight-
His warfare o’er-may there be laid?
Some gallant youth in manhood’s might,
Or monarch that a sceptre swayed?

Ah, no! It is a cherub head-
A babe, a babe, a mother’s joy!
Breathe softly, oh, then softly tread,
There’s angel beauty in the boy!

“Fair of all fairest things most fair-
He in our heart of hearts was cherished;
On earth sent like a falling star,
As fleeting in its brightness perished.

“The bright-eyed fawn, at gleesome play,
Is blithesome: thus my prattler wild;
The glorious morn of coming day
Gives promise to my death-crowned child.

“My bud of beauty, and now here,”
Wildly spoke a mother, weeping.
A miracle has touched the bier,
The baby is not dead but sleeping!

He woke! and raised his hands to clasp
The flowery wreaths around him lying;
When she her living joy did grasp,
The mother, not the boy was dying.

(Godey’s Lady’s Book and Magazine, 1866)

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