Which the slow worm with venomed tooth devours,
The roses left their two fair children's cheeks,
Or came and went like fitful hectic streaks,
As day by day they drooped: their sunny eyes
Grew lustreless and sad; and yearning cries--
Such as wring life-drops from a parent's heart--
Their lisping tongues now uttered. The keen dart
Of the unerring archer, Death, had sunk
Deep in their bosoms, and their young blood drunk;
Yet the affection of the children grew,
As its dull, wasting poison wandered through
Their tender breasts; and still they ever lay
With their arms round each other. On the day
That ushered in the night on which they died,
The boy his mother kissed, and fondly cried,
"Weep not, dear mother!--mother, do not weep!
You told me and my sister, death was sleep--
That the good Saviour, who from heaven came down,
And who for our sake wore a thorny crown--
You often told us how He came to save
Children like us, and conquered o'er the grave;
And I have read in his blessed book,
How in his hand a little child He took,
And said that such in heaven should greatest be:
Then, weep not, mother--do not weep for me;
For if I be angel when I die,
I'll watch you, mother--I'll be ever nigh;
Where'er you go, I'll hover o'er your head;
Then, though I'm buried, do not think me dead!
But let my sister's grave and mine be one,