Lydia Howard Sigourney



The Last Of The Seven

by Lydia Howard Sigourney

Written on seeing a lifeless infant in its cradle.

It held a heather in its hand,
Its mother's favorite flower,
The native plant of Scotia's hills.
And dear Edina's bower,

And meekly in its snowy hand
White rose-buds droop'd the head,
As there, in peaceful sleep it lay
Upon its cradle-bed.

A line of coral mark'd its lip,
A smile, its forehead clear,
But not the changeful smile of those
Who have their wakening here.

No, no! Its welcome was above,
Sisters and brothers fair
Have clasp'd it in their arms of love
For all the seven are there.

The seven are there, and tears no more
Disturb their sweet repose,
In infant innocence they fell,
To heavenly bliss they rose:

And we, who feel how sins and cares
Earth's lingering pilgrim stain,
Give joy to that united band,
On yon celestial plain.


The Weeping Willow
Copyright 1847
Henry S. Parsons, Hartford.