OH SAY NOT 'TWERE A KEENER BLOW.
[_]
(Air composed by Sir. H. Bishop.)
I
Oh say not 'twere a keener blow
To lose a child of riper years;
You do not feel a father's woe,
You cannot check a father's tears.
The girl who rears a sickly plant,
Or cherishes a wounded dove,
Will love them most, while most they want
The watchfulness of love.
II
Time must have chang'd that fair young brow,
And might have chang'd that spotless heart;
Years might have taught deceit—but now,
In love's confiding dawn—we part!
Ere pain or grief had sown decay,
My babe is cradled in the tomb:
Like some fair blossom, torn away
In all its purest bloom.
III
With thoughts of peril and of storm
We see a bark first touch the wave,
But distant seems the whirlwind's form,
As distant—as an infant's grave:
Though all is calm, the beauteous ship
Must brave the whirlwind's rudest breath;
Though all is calm, the infant's lip
Must meet the kiss of death.
