On The Death Of An Infant

SWEET babe! how peaceful is thy sleep,
That sleep which wakes to pain no more;
No more thy little eyes shall weep,
For all thy sorrows now are o'er.

As fair as is thy spotless form,
As pure was thy unsullied mind,
Sweet innocence, that never knew
The frailties of weak human kind.

When earth that spotless form shall hide,
O'er the green turf that covers thee,
May many a smiling flow'ret bloom,
Emblem of infant purity.

Oh! happy, happy child, how short
Thy pilgrimage of life has been,
Its num'rous cares thou hast not felt,
Its mis'ries thou hast never seen.

Thus in thy cradle softly laid,
On ev'ry beauteous feature fair
A placid smile still seems to play,
As death's rude touch had not been there.
Thus the sweet snowdrop's early bud
Reclines on earth its drooping head,
Nipp'd by some rough ungentle hand,
And withers on its native bed.

But kind and gentle was the hand
Which seal'd thy eyes in sweet repose,
E'er, ever on their opening lids
The light of morn unwelcome rose.

The drooping snowdrop's wither'd bud
Shall die and never reach its prime;
But thou sweet flower transplanted hence,
Wilt flourish in a happier clime.

No wintry storms can ever rise
To blight thy tender blossom there,
But one unchanging season smile,
And summer gladden all the year.