University of Virginia Library

AN INFANT'S FUNERAL.

It was a young Child's funeral—'twas the day
Of Holy Sabbath calm—the Sun's broad ray
Shed fulness of all beauty's pomp around,
And spread an orient garment o'er the ground.
It was the spot where lay—with slumber blessed,
Thickly the Village Fathers round at rest!
At rest from all their toils and all their cares,
Safe from life's storms and bitter blighting airs,
And thou borne earthward's, in young bloom art gone
To thy sweet early rest, poor little one!
Ill fated Child!—ill fated?—Nay! not so,
Far happier than the millions left below
To struggle on through all the restless strife,
The trouble and the weariness of life.
Ill fated Child? Oh! blessed beyond all thought,
Thy fate indeed with Heaven's own grace was fraught;
Oh! bless'd beyond expression, bless'd indeed—
Thy heart shall never learn to ache and bleed,
Never thine eye look through a mist of tears,
To see the vista of long-suffering years—
Never thy head droop down, as though no more
To be upraised:—down borne by burthens sore.
Elect of Death, his favoured fondling thou,
Whither hath he conducted thee e'en now?
Whither?—why who shall dream?—Who, who, shall say,
Thus much at least we know—from Earth away—
From all her sorrows, all her deadly wrongs,
The danger that to all her paths belongs,
The heavy trial and the bitter blames—
The stings—the sins—the sufferings—and the shames—
Unto a place of gladness and of peace,
Where tears are wiped away, and trials cease.
Whither?—why who shall say?—Not she who stoops
O'er that paled blossom of her Mother-hopes!
She nothing knows of the new distant home,
Sweet floweret, gathered in thine opening bloom—
She nothing knows of thine abiding-place,
Now thou hast run thy little measured race—
Dear Child! though 'twas a brief short while ago,
Upon her loving bosom!—wan with woe
She leans above the dust where thou art laid,
Bewildered—sorrowing—hopeful—yet afraid;
The poor pale Mother—Oh! she nothing knows
Of where now blooms her sweet half-budded rose—
Nor he, the silent Father, whose strong arm
Was nerved to guard thee 'gainst all wrong and harm—
Prompt to extend defence and aid to thee—
Most vigorous in that service fond and free!
He who still set his rugged hand to toil—
And taught his brow beneath June-Suns to broil—
For thee—his lovely lamb—his blithesome bird—
Who in his breast all founts of feelings stirred.
Nothing he knoweth of where now thou art,
Save by the passionate guesses of his heart—
The little lamb that had not time to stray,
Ere the keen knife drank its sweet life away;
Is it not gathered to the hallowed fold?
Oh! bend not thus above the insensate mould!
Bend, bend not thus above the unconscious dust,
To the Great Shepherd that loved lamb entrust!
In His divinest presence entered now—
Immortal life smiles beaming from its brow—
Poor father—weeping mother—turn away
From ashes, and from dust and senseless clay,
Think not of that dear infant as beneath,
The rule and sway of ruthless gloomy Death.
But think of it as in the love and care
Of Heaven's high grace, and all the Angels there!
All angel too itself—to death, to pain,
Never to stoop nor subject be again!
'Twere for Earth's mightiest ones the happiest doom
To exchange their place of pride for thy calm tomb!