On The Tomb Of An Infant

Thrice happy they, who early fall,
Who scarcely draw their feeble breath,
Just view the gloom that frowns on all,
And sweetly sink in friendly death.


No pain, no grief, no fears they know,
Nor wasting sickness, want, nor care;
Releas'd e'er yet they taste of woe,
Nor bade life's thousand ills to bear.


Ne'er doom'd remorse's pains to feel,
In death their tears and sorrows cease,
E'er vice their glowing hearts congeal,
'Tis their's to sweetly sleep in peace.


As crystal dew-drops, pure and fair,
Adorn the flow'rs at break of day,
Drank by the sun, disperse in air,
And shine on Iris' varied ray;


So they as pure, as fair, as sweet,
Just smile, and scarcely learn to sigh;
Heav'n's favor then, with mildest heat,
Transports them gently to the sky.


They know not Death's dissolving pangs,
Which softly set their spirits free;
And while his friendly arrow hangs,
Give life and immortality.


Why then should flow affection's tear,
Why crystal drops suffuse the eye?
Why mourn him, innocent and dear,
So lately lifted to the sky?


While heav'nly cherubs watch the tomb,
Where lies the dust in placid sleep;
Why will ye mourn his early doom,
Why bending o'er the chaplets weep?


Celestial spirit! wipe the tear,
Chase ev'ry gloomy thought away;
Still love the breast that mourns thy bier,
And cheer with thoughts of endless day.


Soon shall thy body, fair and bright,
Start from the tomb thy soul to meet,
Rise to the realms of endless light,
To bow before the mercy seat.


Then seek thy Saviour's glowing breast,
And raptur'd thy Redeemer view;
His bosom oft young children prest,
He liv'd--he died--he rose for you.


There pillow'd on his bosom lie,
When suns shall quench their lamps in night,
When Time shall end and Nature die,
And day shall shine with endless light.


Then cleaving quick the balmy air,
A cherub grown in endless day,
Thy Saviour's noblest image wear,
And in Hosannahs melt away.


Yes, let thy parent dry her tears,
And own the stroke in mercy giv'n;
Taste comfort from thy early years,
And bless the hand that snatch'd to Heav'n.


A softer bed than she could give,
The grave upon thy dust confers,--
To die--is but more glad to live,
And Jesus' bosom kind as her's.