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They are not dead-my darlings
They meet me at the door, The patter of their little feet
Is sounding from the floor.
The rustle of their garments soft,
The tones that murmuring fell,
In cadence sweet, upon my ear,
Forbid a last farewell.
Oh! many are the fancies
That still my heart beguile, While reason sleeps, they enter,
And cheat my love the while. Sometimes I am returning
From a little absence-long To the dear ones who are watching
For their mother's safe return.
I see them far off, coming,
And half I bend to meet; The Welcome, soft and tender,
That was ever mine to greet.
First of all, my darling Mary,
With her bright and happy brow; The sunlight of ber beauty
Is beaming on me now.
And by her side another,
With bis wealth of golden hair; I can see his sunny ringlets
Tossing wildly in the air.
Alas! it is but dreaming,
My darlings are at rest;
But the mother-heart is yearning
To fold them to her breast.
Oh! my heart is full of memories,
Mine eyes are full of tears; God only knows the anguish,
'Mid the calmness which appears. THE ANGEL OF MY WEARY HOUR.
TO SARAH MARIE.
An angel strayed from Eden's bowers,
Nor found again its home so dear;
With trembling wing and heart of fear
It chanced upon our parent cot,
At the sweet hour of eventide;
Were gathered to the mother side.
With raised eyes and clasped hands,
Their hearts went in one choral strain,