The angel of the raven wing
His sable plume waves there,
And writhing on his silken couch,
Lies stretch'd the only heir.

She feels how vain a thing is wealth,
To ease that lab'ring breath,--
Or bribe, in his resistless course,
The tyrant monster, death.

The hours of night passed slow away,
When brightly rose the sun;
The boy in quiet beauty lay--
The fearful work was done.

The angel had performed his part,
And back to heav'n had flown;
The mother with a bursting heart,
Sat weeping now, alone.

She rising, smoothed his golden hair,
One ringlet gently shred;
And then, within a costly shroud,
She wrapped her silent dead.

And folded light the snowy screen,
That hid from every eye
Those features, beautiful in death,
And marble forehead high.