On The Death Of A Child

Go, angel, cherub, go,
Back to thy native skies;
Nor tarry longer here below,
Amid earth's vanities;
Hear'st not that voice, "Come, daughter, come?"
It is thy Father calls thee home!
Brief was thy term of pain;
But thou art happy now;
For the Redeemer's blissful reign
Extends o'er such as thou.
Ten thousand infant-spirits wait,
Attendant on his royal state.
What were a few more years
Of earth's delusive joys —
Toiling along this vale of tears,
Unprofitably wise;
One hour of Paradise were worth
An age of all the joys of earth!
'Tis where affection twines
The closest round the heart
That Death matures his dark designs
And aims his envious dart.
But still 'twas meant in love for thee;
And should thy joy be grief to me?
No! angel, cherub, go,
Back to thy native skies;
Nor tarry longer here below,
Amid earth's vanities;
Hear'st not that voice, "Come, daughter, come?"
It is thy Father calls thee home!