The Independent Press

I Think of my Child.
BY MRS. M. W. STRATTON.

I think of my child when the sun shines bright
And earth seems to revel in beauty and light,
When the singing of birds, and the humming
of bees,
Make a musical world of the dew-laden trees.
I weep for my lost one then.

I mourn that she sleeps in the dark cold ground,
Shut out from the beauty so lavished around,
That wild flowers bloom, and the long willows
wave,
In silence, and sadness, o'er Immogene's grave.
I weep for my lost one then.

I think of my child when the silvery moon
Sheds loveliness holier, sweeter, than noon,
And I think of her too in the still, dark night,
The star-studded sky may not gladden her sight
I weep for my lost one then.

I touch my loved harp, but its strings no more
Are tuned to the gladness they breathed of yore;
A white-robed spirit seems hovering near
To sadden the notes, and a heart-wrung tear
Is shed for my lost one then.

I think of my child when a harsh world's blame
Would sully the whiteness of woman's name.
When slander's blighting with poisonous breath
I triumph to think that she sleeps in death,
Nor weep for my lost one then.

When a pale wife shrinks from a wine-flushed
face,
And a tyrant reigns in a husband's place-
And when cruel injustice with iron tread
Has trampled a spirit, and whitened a head,
Can I weep for my lost one then?

I think of my child when the wind blows high
And the lightning flash from an angry sky,
When the waves of trouble come bounding on,
I triumph to think that my darling's gone,
Nor weep for my lost one then.

Oh, I dream that she's one of an angel band
And I'll meet her again in the spirit land—
That she is not lost, only gone before,
And try to believe that I grieve no more.
But I weep for my lost one then