The Cradle Tomb In Westminster Abbey.

A little, rudely sculptured bed,     With shadowing folds of marble lace,     And quilt of marble, primly spread     And folded round a baby's face.     Smoothly the mimic coverlet,     With royal blazonries bedight,     Hangs, as by tender fingers set     And straightened for the last good-night.     And traced upon the pillowing stone     A dent is seen, as if to bless     The quiet sleep some grieving one     Had leaned, and left a soft impress.     It seems no more than yesterday     Since the sad mother down the stair     And down the long aisle stole away,     And left her darling sleeping there.     But dust upon the cradle lies,     And those who prized the baby so,     And laid her down to rest with sighs,     Were turned to dust long years ago.     Above the peaceful pillowed head     Three centuries brood, and strangers peep     And wonder at the carven bed,--     But not unwept the baby's sleep,     For wistful mother-eyes are blurred     With sudden mists, as lingerers stay,     And the old dusts are roused and stirred     By the warm tear-drops of to-day.     Soft, furtive hands caress the stone,     And hearts, o'erleaping place and age,     Melt into memories, and own     A thrill of common parentage.     Men die, but sorrow never dies;     The crowding years divide in vain,     And the wide world is knit with ties     Of common brotherhood in pain;     Of common share in grief and loss,     And heritage in the immortal bloom     Of Love, which, flowering round its cross,     Made beautiful a baby's tomb.