The Last Rose-bud.

The child was radiant with delight, As from the garden's shade, With golden ringlets clustering bright, She burst upon the mother's sight, And in her hand, like fairy sprite, A blooming rose-bud laid. 'Twas the last wreath by summer wove That thus the darling brought, For Autumn's breath had chill'd the grove; Oh mother! was that gift of love With aught of sadness fraught? Say, didst thou think how soon that head In silent earth would rest? A solemn curtain o'er it spread, And the green turf she joy'd to tread, A covering for her breast? But, for the buds that fade no more, Look thou in faith above, Look, mother! where the seraphs soar, Where countless harps their music pour, And raptur'd cherubim adore The God of boundless love.