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FIRST SUNDAY AFTER EASTER, 1844.

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF CLEMENT HENRY OKE ALFORD.

My blessed child! Last Sunday morn,
That Feast of all the year,
We held thee in our wearied arms,
Distraught with hope and fear.
We soothed thee with caresses fond;
With words, alas, how vain!
We strove to still thy piercing moans,
And set to sleep thy pain.
But still the thought would ever rise
In stern reality,
Ill balanced by returning hope,
That our dear child would die.
Another Sunday morn is come,
But all is altered now:
Pilgrims upon this earth are we,
A blessed saint art thou.
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No mother now beside thy bed
Let fall her burning tears;
No father bathes thy fevered head,
Nor whispers rising fears.
That form so fair, those eyes so bright,
Are laid in hallowed ground,
And over them the churchward chimes
A peaceful requiem sound.
But thou, dear glorious child, art fled,
And on thy Saviour's breast
Dost for the resurrection-morn
In holy quiet rest.
Oh, never would we change this hour,
With blessed hope so bright,
For that sad day of fainting prayers,
For that last anxious night.
The earth and all that is therein
Are hallowed to us now:
In work, at rest, at home, abroad,
Where'er we turn, art thou.
Thou blessed child in Paradise,
Safe fled from sin and pain;
Oh, not for all thy life could give
Shouldst thou be here again.
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