The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince Edited by R. A. Douglas Lithgow |
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ON THE DEATH OF TWO INFANT CHILDREN. |
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 | The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince |  |
354
ON THE DEATH OF TWO INFANT CHILDREN.
Alas for me!
Two bonny buds but newly-blown,
But into winning beauty grown,
From my domestic garden torn,
Have left me feeble and forlorn;
I miss them from my household tree,—
Alas for me!
Two bonny buds but newly-blown,
But into winning beauty grown,
From my domestic garden torn,
Have left me feeble and forlorn;
I miss them from my household tree,—
Alas for me!
Alas for me!
Two lambs, a blessing to behold,
Are taken from their earthly fold,
'Mid fairer pasture-fields to roam,
Round the great Shepherd's happier home;
And though I bow submissive knee,
Alas for me!
Two lambs, a blessing to behold,
Are taken from their earthly fold,
'Mid fairer pasture-fields to roam,
Round the great Shepherd's happier home;
And though I bow submissive knee,
Alas for me!
Alas for me!
Two jewels rarest of the treasure
Set in my crown of human pleasure,
Are shaken earthward, and each gem
Recalled to God's own diadem,
To shine where sinless seraphs be,—
Alas for me!
Two jewels rarest of the treasure
Set in my crown of human pleasure,
Are shaken earthward, and each gem
Recalled to God's own diadem,
To shine where sinless seraphs be,—
Alas for me!
355
Alas for me!
Two love-beams, sent from heaven to cheer
My lot of storm and darkness here,
Are gathered to the central light
Of climes unknown to death or night;
Would that my own sad soul were free—
Alas for me!
Two love-beams, sent from heaven to cheer
My lot of storm and darkness here,
Are gathered to the central light
Of climes unknown to death or night;
Would that my own sad soul were free—
Alas for me!
Alas for thee!
My own, my true, my patient wife,
Dear antidote of care and strife;
Fond mother of my babes that rest
In the mute earth's maternal breast!
What must thy double sorrow be?
Alas for thee!
My own, my true, my patient wife,
Dear antidote of care and strife;
Fond mother of my babes that rest
In the mute earth's maternal breast!
What must thy double sorrow be?
Alas for thee!
But why repine?
Though the cold earth enshrines my dears;
Though moments scarcely count our tears,
A little hope, a little trust,
A little thought beyond the dust,
May fit us for that home of joy
Where they can never feel annoy,
Where they, perchance, keep watch, and wait
Our coming to that radiant gate
That opens into life divine,—
Then why repine?
Though the cold earth enshrines my dears;
Though moments scarcely count our tears,
A little hope, a little trust,
A little thought beyond the dust,
May fit us for that home of joy
Where they can never feel annoy,
Where they, perchance, keep watch, and wait
Our coming to that radiant gate
That opens into life divine,—
Then why repine?
| The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince | |