Lydia Huntley Sigourney

Herbert Foss

"Read more, Papa," the loving infant cried,--
And meekly bow'd the listening ear, and fix'd
The ardent eye, devouring every word
Of his dear picture book. And then he spread
His arms, and folded thrice the father's neck.
--The mother came from church, and lull'd her boy
To quiet sleep, and laid him in his crib;
And as they watch'd the smile of innocence
That sometimes lightly floated o'er his brow
That Sabbath eve, they to each other said,
"_How beautiful._"
                    There was another scene,--
The child lay compass'd round with Spring's white flowers,
Yet heav'd no breath to stir their lightest leaf.
And many a one who on that coffin look'd
And went their way, in tender whisper said
"_How beautiful!_"
                    Oh parents, ye who sit
Mourning for HERBERT, in your empty room,
What if the darling of your fondest care
Scarce woke from his brief dream and went to Heaven?
--Our dream is longer, but 'tis mixed with tears.
For we are dreamers all, and only those
Fully awake, who dwell where naught deceives.

So, when time's vision o'er, you reach the land
Which hath no need of sun, or waning moon
To give it light, how sweet to hear your child
Bid you "_good morning_" with his cherub tongue.

    His last words to his father, who was reading to him in a favorite
    book, were, "Read, more, papa, please read more." Soon after, and
    almost without warning, he died.