The Dying Infant.

Who knows the yearnings of a mother’s soul,
While bending o’er the babe, she dearly loves,
When dying on her knee. Her bosom heaves,
With deep drawn sighs;—Lo! ev’ry sigh’s a prayer,
As ardently she gazes on its face,
And lightly wipes its sweat bedewed brow.

Poor, helpless babe! in thee is clearly seen
The frailty of our nature, and the pains
To which we’re still subjected, and must bear
From infancy to manhood and old age.
Sweet Innocent! no cares perplex thy mind,
As patiently ye bear the afflicting rod.
But well may’st thou endure thy little ills,
They’re only for a moment, then they’re o’er,
While angels wait to tend thy soul to bliss.
Thy race shall soon be run; and soon shall end
The time appointed for thy sojourn here,
When ye’ll be freed from sorrow and from sin.
As yet, thy heart was void of worldly wiles;
No charms of earth have thy affection bound,
To make thee grieve, when thou art call’d away.
page xiii No wish hast thou to be of older date,
When thus in view of heaven’s immortal land,
Who would not wish t’ enjoy thy happy state,—
So near thy exit from this vale of tears,—
Rather than drag a life of fourscore years
In toils and misery. ’Tis true indeed,
That life is sweet to all afraid to die;
No fear of death appears to haunt thy mind;
Resigned to Heav’n, ye seem t’await His will:—
“Depart ye hence, for this is not your rest.”

How hard it is to part with what we love;—
Self makes the loss too hard to be endured,
When what we love is from our bosoms torn.
Oh! Heaven grant sweet comfort to the minds
Of grieving parents, when thou see’st fit
Them of their little darling to deprive.
’Tis Thou, alone, who lift’st our comforts high,
And when Thou wilt Thou sink’st them in the grave.
Then pour Thy Spirit’s consolating balm
Into their wounded hearts, that they may praise
Thy name in love, for all Thou dost bestow;
And when Thou should’st deprive them of Thy gift,
Enable them to say, “Thy will be done”!