On the Death of Two Little Children

Ah! bitter chance! no hand the blow could ward!
Nor shield from harm her little guileless breast,
New to this perilous world, and daily prest
To a fond mother's heart; her lot seems hard;
But lo! her face is calm — a gentle tone
Seems murmuring from those lips that breathe no more,
' Come, little sister, mark'd for heaven before!
I crave that hand, yet smaller than mine own,
That baby-hand, to clasp again in mine!'
Sweet spirit! as thou wishest, it shall be;
Death drops his wing on younger heads than thine,
Though thine is of the youngest; soon to thee
The little sister of thy soul shall come
And one low funeral bell shall bring ye home!