THE DEATH OF AN INFANT.

There, my mother, pleasures centre ;
Weeping, parting, care, or wo,
Ne'er our father's house can enter-
Morn advances-let me go.

As through this calm and holy dawning,
Silent glides my parting breath

To an everlasting morning-
Gently close my eyes on death.

Blessings, endless, richest blessings,
Pour their streams upon thy heart!
(Though no language yet possessing)
Breathes my spirit ere we part.

Yet to leave thee sorrowing grieves me,
Though again his voice I hear—
Rise!-may every grace attend thee,
Rise! and seek to meet me there!

R. CECIL.

THE DEATH OF AN INFANT.

"BE,—rather than be called a child of God,"
Death whispered. With assenting nod,
Its head upon its mother's breast,
The baby bowed without demur;
Of the kingdom of the blessed

Possessor-not inheritor.

COLERIDGE.

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TO A DYING INFANT.

SLEEP, little baby! sleep!
Not in thy cradle bed,
Not on thy mother's breast
Henceforth shall be thy rest,
But with the quiet dead.

Yes! with the quiet dead,
Baby, thy rest shall be;
Oh! many a weary wight,
Weary of life and light,

Would fain lie down with thee.

Flee, little tender nursling,

Flee to thy grassy nest!

There the first flower shall blow

The first pure flake of snow

Shall fall upon thy breast.

Peace! peace! thy little bosom

Labours with shortening breath; Peace! peace! that tremulous sigh Speaks his departure nigh,

These are the damps of death.

TO A DYING INFANT.

I've seen thee in thy beauty,

A thing all health and glee;
But never then wert thou
So beautiful as now,

Baby! thou seemest to me.

Mount up, immortal essence!

Young spirit! haste-depart!And is this death ?-dread thing! If such thy visiting,

How beautiful thou art!

Thine upturned eyes, glazed over
Like harebells wet with dew,
Already veiled, and hid

By the convulsed lid,

Their pupils darkly blue.

Thy little mouth half open,
Thy soft lip quivering,
As if (like summer air

Ruffling the rose leaves) there
Thy soul were fluttering.

Oh! I would gaze for ever
Upon that waxen face;
So passionless, so pure;
The little shrine were sure

An angel's dwelling-place.

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Thou weepest, childless mother!
Ay, weep 'twill ease thine heart;
He was thy first-born son,
Thy first, thine only one,
"Tis hard with him to part!

'Tis hard to lay thy darling
Deep in the damp, cold earth-
His empty crib to see,
His silent nursery-

Once gladsome with his mirth.

To meet again, in slumber,

His small mouth's rosy kiss;

Then wakened with a start
By thine own throbbing heart,
His twining arms to miss.

To feel, half-conscious why,
A dull heart-sinking weight,
"Till memory on thy soul
Flashes the painful whole,
That thou art desolate.

And then to lie and weep,

And think the livelong night,
(Feeding thine own distress
With accurate greediness)—
Of every past delight.

TO A DYING INFANT.
Of all his winning ways—
His pretty playful smiles--
His joy at sight of thee-
His tricks, his mimicry,

And all his little wiles!

Oh! these are recollections
Round mothers' hearts that cling;

That mingle with the tears,

And smiles of after years,
With oft awakening.

But thou wilt then, fond mother!

In after years look back, (Time brings such wondrous easing!) With sadness not unpleasing,

E'en on this gloomy track.

Thou'lt say "My first-born blessing,

It almost broke my heart,

When thou wert forced to go,

And yet for thee, I know 'Twas better to depart.

"God took thee in His mercy,

A lamb untasked, untried; He fought the fight for thee, He won the victory,

And thou art sanctified.

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