Henry Pickering (1781–1838)

[From Recollections of Childhood.]

I SAW the infant cherub—soft it lay,

As it was wont, within its cradle, now

Deck’d with sweet smelling flowers. A sight so strange

Fill’d my young breast with wonder, and I gazed

Upon the babe the more. I thought it slept—

And yet its little bosom did not move!

I bent me down to look into its eyes,

But they were closed: then, softly clasp’d its hand,

But mine it would not clasp. What should I do?

“Wake, brother, wake!” I then impatient cried,

“Open thine eyes, and look on me again!”

He would not hear my voice. All pale beside

My weeping mother sat, “and gazed and look’d

Unutterable things.” Will he not wake?

I eager ask’d: She answer’d but with tears.

Her eyes on me, at length, with piteous look

Were cast—now on the babe once more were fix’d—

And now on me: then with convulsive sigh

And throbbing heart, she clasp’d me in her arms,

And in a tone of anguish faintly said—

“My dearest boy! thy brother does not sleep;

Alas! he ’s dead; he never will awake.”

He ’s dead! I knew not what it meant, but more

To know I sought not. For the words so sad,

“He never will awake”—sunk in my soul:

I felt a pang unknown before, and tears

That angels might have shed, my heart dissolved.