 | Poems by William Stanley Roscoe |  |
110
ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT BOY.
'Tis past—those eyes for ever close,
Soft falls the parting breath,
Those limbs shall have a long repose
Within the arms of death!
So still, so pure that gentle smile,
Thou seemest but to sleep,
Thy parents linger yet awhile
Or ere they turn to weep.
Soft falls the parting breath,
Those limbs shall have a long repose
Within the arms of death!
So still, so pure that gentle smile,
Thou seemest but to sleep,
Thy parents linger yet awhile
Or ere they turn to weep.
111
O fragrant be the turf and flowers
That shroud thy infant breast,
While o'er thee fly th' unheeded hours
Of everlasting rest;
The dews of eve, the breath of morn
Shall gather o'er thy tomb,
And hands unseen thy grave adorn
With summer's sweetest bloom.
That shroud thy infant breast,
While o'er thee fly th' unheeded hours
Of everlasting rest;
The dews of eve, the breath of morn
Shall gather o'er thy tomb,
And hands unseen thy grave adorn
With summer's sweetest bloom.
I bid thee now a long adieu,
But linger yet awhile,
Till weeping memory calls to view
Thy soft and cherub smile;
Deep are the pangs that rend my soul,
Thus from thee to depart,
And sighs that will not brook control
Oppress my labouring heart.
But linger yet awhile,
Till weeping memory calls to view
Thy soft and cherub smile;
Deep are the pangs that rend my soul,
Thus from thee to depart,
And sighs that will not brook control
Oppress my labouring heart.
112
How soon thy infant race is run,
How short thy morning light,
Or ere the beams of day begun,
'Twas shrouded dark in night!
Ah! never shalt thou tread the round
Of youth's delighting years,
When earth with all her blooming ground
A paradise appears.
How short thy morning light,
Or ere the beams of day begun,
'Twas shrouded dark in night!
Ah! never shalt thou tread the round
Of youth's delighting years,
When earth with all her blooming ground
A paradise appears.
On some fond breast that beats with thine,
Caressing and carest,
Thy youthful head shall ne'er recline
In tender transports blest;
Nor is it thine to feel the blight
That chang'd affections bring,
How dark the thoughts of past delight,
That own no second spring.
Caressing and carest,
Thy youthful head shall ne'er recline
In tender transports blest;
Nor is it thine to feel the blight
That chang'd affections bring,
How dark the thoughts of past delight,
That own no second spring.
113
Thou shalt not see a blooming race
In beauty round thee stand,
To spread thy name in many a place,
The loved of thy land.
Nor art thou doom'd to see them bend,
And fade in youthful bloom,
And midst thy vain laments descend
Before thee to the tomb.
In beauty round thee stand,
To spread thy name in many a place,
The loved of thy land.
Nor art thou doom'd to see them bend,
And fade in youthful bloom,
And midst thy vain laments descend
Before thee to the tomb.
To see a hoary length of days
Sent by approving heaven,
And walk in Wisdom's sacred ways
To thee shall not be given;
Nor shalt thou drain this mortal bowl
Midst dim and darkling fears,
Or feel the sorrows of the soul
Bow'd with a weight of years.
Sent by approving heaven,
And walk in Wisdom's sacred ways
To thee shall not be given;
Nor shalt thou drain this mortal bowl
Midst dim and darkling fears,
Or feel the sorrows of the soul
Bow'd with a weight of years.
114
Ah! yet farewell—careering fast
The days of manhood run,
Soon shall this mortal race be past,
And end as it begun.
Then, cherub, shall I see thee stand
Serene amid the blest,
And I shall find that happy land
Where all the weary rest.
The days of manhood run,
Soon shall this mortal race be past,
And end as it begun.
Then, cherub, shall I see thee stand
Serene amid the blest,
And I shall find that happy land
Where all the weary rest.
| Poems by William Stanley Roscoe | |