Recreations for Solitary Hours
The Dying Infant
The Dying Infant.
Who knows the yearnings of a mother's soul,
While bending o'er the babe she fondly loves,
When dying on her knee;—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 natures, and the pains
To which we're all 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 free'd 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.
No wish hast thou to be of older date,
page 30 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 Heaven, ye seem t' await the call,
"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 lifts 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 dopt deprive them of thy gift,
Enable them to say, "Thy will be done!"
October 24, 1835.—10 o'clock, p.m.