The Poetical Works of Robert Montgomery :: :: University of Virginia Library

Thou beauteous Morn of sainted rest!
Breathing like balm along the troubled breast,
Now while the sacred chimes are pealing
Floats o'er my soul a soften'd feeling,
That springeth not from earth alone;—
My heaven-gone babe! I think of thee,
Who in thy young eternity
A sabbath first wilt call thine own.

But one week since, and thou wert here
Tender as Morning's crystal tear,
A little flutt'ring shape of life
Too frail to bear the breath of strife,—
We almost fear'd on thee to gaze!
While something like prophetic sighs
Did from parental hearts arise,
When dreaming o'er thine unborn days.

Calm innocent! whose helpless charms
Lay nestled in thy nurse's arms,
We loved to watch each dawning gleam
That from thy soul began to beam,
And half believed it long'd to smile;
And though unlisp'd thy thought expired
Within mysterious depths retired,—
Thy lip seem'd eloquent the while!

'Twas beautiful in sleep to view
The radiance of a rose-like hue
Bloom softly o'er thy rounded cheek,—
As though some Angel did bespeak
Thy spirit with an unvoiced spell;
Since more than beauty then array'd
Thy features, while their flush betray'd
What earth-breathed tones can never tell.

How often, when no eye could see,
I breathed a father's prayer o'er thee!
And where thy little cradle stood
Besought the Source of heavenly good
Thy life to overshade with love;
How did I mark with doating gaze
Thy baby wiles and winsome ways,
And blest for thee my God above!

Such wert thou, ere the Voice Divine,
“The first-born, ere it sin, 'tis mine,”
Roll'd through our hearts its awful cry!
And, softer than aërial sigh,
To heaven return'd thine infant-breath;
Like a dead lily wert thou laid
Ere sin had cast its poison-shade
Around thee, white in lovely death.

We wept, as they can weep alone
Who first a parent's grief have known;
And felt as though a life-chord broke
At spectral dawn, when Day awoke,
And all was breathless in thy room!
Oh, there the hush of graves did brood,
And awful seem'd the solitude
That was to wrap thine early tomb.

One last, and long, and clinging look
Of thy dead face and form I took,
And into memory did receive
An image, that shall never leave
My soul, while time and truth remain!—
Seldom has Death more beauty hid
Under a coffin's tiny lid,
Than thine, within the churchyard lain.

All this thou wast; but what, and where
Thy spirit now, can none declare:
For, born in sin, baptised and seal'd
With grace divine, God bid thee yield
Thine innocence to Him on high;
Back, like a heaven-bird to its home,
Borne by blest Angels, didst thou roam,
And vanish'd to thy genial sky.

Oh, wond'rous change!—the purest word
By mental wisdom breathed, or heard,
The brightest dream that can entrance
A raptured saint, or martyr's glance,
Are all too weak and worthless things
E'er to unfold what thou must feel,
To whom Heaven's glories now reveal
More than the harp of David sings!

A nursling wert thou, wan and weak;
A sigh was all thy soul could speak;

Frailer than new-born lambs which feed
When dropp'd upon the sunny mead,—
We only trembled, while we gazed,
To think that such a cradled form
Could weather out life's wasting storm,
That must around thy lot be raised.

A watch-tick would have been to thee
The height of human mystery;
A tone, a sunbeam, or a flower
Have all surpass'd thy mental power,
And rapt thee in amazement deep;
But now,—beyond what Saints believe
Thy faculties in heaven receive,
And neither sin, nor weep!

Yes, in a moment, vast the change
That must around thy spirit's range
Have circled its divine excess
Of all which can the glorious bless!
While o'er thy manumitted soul,
Transcending all the Church hath known
Since Christ ascended to His throne,—
Voices and visions grandly stole.

Baptismal grace and purity,
Far more than time, befitted thee
For scenes of splendour, which await
Bright Spirits in their perfect state,—
The sacramental Host in heaven:
What lofty minds but half presage,
To thee is now an open page
Beyond the glance in scripture given.

And oh, what bliss, which baffles thought!
To think that upward thou art caught
To some chaste realm of cloudless joy,
Before the touch of earth's alloy
Had stain'd the virgin soul with sin;
Ere passion, or polluted deed
Had caused the harrow'd mind to bleed,—
Heaven oped its doors, and let thee in!

Thus while yon pensive chimes are pealing
Floats o'er my soul a sacred feeling,
Mournful, but mild, and full of prayer,—
A thought beyond what creeds declare,
That thou, sweet babe! art shrined in glory,
'Mid saints and prophets, priests and kings,
A Spirit graced with star-bright wings,
With innocents who died before thee.

Here, in this vale of time and tears
While we fulfil our fated years,
'Twill oft refresh my heart to dream
What living splendours round thee beam,
That issue from The Lamb who died;
While lisping cherubs, like to thee,
Warble before the Deity
Soft anthems to The Crucified.