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Lyra Pastoralis

Songs of Nature, Church, and Home: By Richard Wilton
 

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52

On an Infant's Death

A little life,
Five summer months of gladness,
Without one cloud of sorrow, sin, or strife—
Cut short by sudden gloom and wintry sadness.
A little mound,
By buttress grey defended,
Watered with tears and garlanded all round,
By gentle hands affectionately tended.
A little cot,
Empty, forlorn, forsaken,
Silent remembrancer that he is not—
Gone—past our voice to lull or kiss to waken.
A little frock
He wore, or hat that shaded
His innocent brow—seen with a sudden shock
Of grief for that dear form so quickly faded.
A little flower,
Because he touched it, cherished—
Fragile memorial of one happy hour
Before the beauty of our blossom perished.
A little hair,
Secured with trembling fingers—
All that is left us of our infant fair,
All we shall see of him while this life lingers.

53

A little name,
In parish records written,
A passing sigh of sympathy to claim
From other fathers for a father smitten.
But a great trust
Irradiates our sorrow,
That though to-day his name is writ in dust,
We shall behold it writ in heaven to-morrow.
And a great peace
Our troubled soul possesses,
That though to embrace him these poor arms must cease,
Our lamb lies folded in the Lord's caresses.
A little pain
To point his life's brief story—
A few hours' mortal weariness, to gain
Unutterable rest, unending glory.
A little prayer,
By lips Divine once spoken,
“Thy will be done!”—is breathed into the air
From hearts submissive though with accents broken.
A little while
And Time no more shall sever—
But we shall see him with his own sweet smile,
And clasp our darling in our arms for ever!