 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
268
ON A CHILD STILL-BORN.
Born, but to die!—O happier lot than ours,Born to do battle in this world of strife
With cares and wrongs and wants and woes of life,
Guilt that o'erclouds and Evil that o'erpowers
Our threescore years and ten, with sorrows rife:
Born, but to die! O favour'd little one,
So soon and easily to overleap
Sin's moat, drawn black all round us broad and deep,
And in the glory of a brighter sun
To spring at once to Eden's greenest bowers!
Yes, happy innocent, thy work is done
Without one effort but that waking sleep,
Winning the race, though scarcely well begun,
And ripe for bliss, though never taught to weep!
| Three Hundred Sonnets | |