"Ere sin could blight, or sorrow fade,
Death came with friendly care,
The opening buds to heaven convey'd,
And bade them blossom there."
"Within this grave an infant, nine months old,
Is laid in trust.—God takes His purest gold
First to Himself.—We all are but as flowers,
That spring and grow, and fade in a few hours."
"Why, mother, will you longer weep?
Your baby is but lull'd asleep;
And, pretty child, feels now no more
The pains it often felt before.
Now all is silent,—groans are fled;
Your child lies still, yet is not dead;
But rather like a flow'r lies here,
To spring again another year."
"Here side by side ow infants lie!
Nor sickness frets, nor fear alarms.
The lov'd ones of the Shepherd's eye,
The lambs He carries in His arms!
We weep,—yet angels seem to say,
Who would see heav'n must be as they."
