The Dead Infant

Sweet bud of being!—for a moment given
To show how pure young spirits are in Heaven—
Then snatched in love from all the woes of earth,
Not dead, but wakened to a nobler birth—
Called from the thorny maze by others trod,
Home to the bosom of the infant’s God!
Called early, ere the ruthless hand of Time
Had dimmed thy spirit with a shade of crime—
Cannot thy memory even now impart
Sweet consolation to the bleeding heart?
Cannot thine infant spirit from above
Say to the mourner, “God afflicts in love!”

Happy thy lot, dear child! escaped from all
That shrouds the spirit like a gloomy pall;
Thy pangs all over—rest thee, pure one! rest—
We would not call thee back since thou are blest!