Sonnet XX.

We stood beside the sick, and, as we thought,
The dying pillow of our youngest child,
Whose spirit yet by this world, undefiled,
Seem'd ready to take wing; when there was brought
A letter for my hands, which in me wrought
Strange feelings; for it spake, with kindness mild,
Of one to like bereavement reconciled
By a brief lesson which my pen had taught.
And therewith came a little simple book,
Telling a gentle tale of children twain,
Whom God of late to rest eternal took
From this world's sin and sorrow, care and pain:
Thankfully on those pages did we look,
And trust they spake not to our hearts in vain.