A Father to His Sleeping Child

Thy lips, my child, recall the smile
Of those I would not show thee now,
And she who blest my life awhile
Hath left her spirit on thy brow:
O doubly dear, now she is cold,
I would not hear thy death-bell toll'd!

Her voice was musical and low,
Of thrilling tone like sounds in sleep;
And, like the footfall in the snow,
Heard faintly, though it sank so deep:
And thy soft accents are the same,
Thou hast her voice — her look — her name!