 | Lyra Pastoralis |  |
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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!
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