Thy dread attendants, all destroying Power,
Hurried the infant to his mortal hour.
Could'st thou unpitying close those radiant eyes?
Or failed his artless beauties to surprise?
Could not his innocence thy stroke control,
Thy purpose shake, and soften all thy soul?
The blooming babe, with shades of death o'erspread,
No more shall smile, no more shall raise its head,
But, like a branch that from the tree is torn,
Falls prostrate, withered, languid and forlorn.
"Where flies my James?" 'T is thus I seem to hear
The parent ask. "Some angel, tell me where
"He wings his passage through the yielding air."
Methinks a cherub, bending from the skies,
Observes the question, and serene replies:
"In heaven's high palaces your babe appears;
"Prepare to meet him and dismiss your tears."
Shall not the intelligence your grief restrain,
And turn the mournful to the cheerful strain?
Cease your complaints, suspend each rising sigh,
Cease to accuse the Ruler of the sky.
Parents, no more indulge the falling tear:
Let faith to heaven's refulgent domes repair,
There see your infant like a seraph glow:
What charms celestial in his numbers flow
Melodious, while the soul-enchanting strain
Dwells on his tongue, and fills the etherial plain!
Enough—forever cease your murmuring breath;
Not as a foe, but friend, converse with Death,
