on an infant's death.
First hope of every brighter hour,
Thou'rt gone; and what is mine *—despair.
Thou'rt gone; and what is mine *—despair.
A few short months of bliss were mine,
To die in one soul-crushing day;
In silent grief we stood amazed—
Heart-broken gasped, Is this decay?
To die in one soul-crushing day;
In silent grief we stood amazed—
Heart-broken gasped, Is this decay?
So softly sleeping seemed my babe,
Life's bloom scarce brushed from off his brow;
I pressed the pale cold cheek, and felt
That death could deal no deadlier blow.
Life's bloom scarce brushed from off his brow;
I pressed the pale cold cheek, and felt
That death could deal no deadlier blow.
No words can paint that hour of grief;
Feelings too deep for tears may tell
How Time, that brings all else relief,
Bears with it but a darkened spell.
Feelings too deep for tears may tell
How Time, that brings all else relief,
Bears with it but a darkened spell.
Nor would I even hush my sorrow:
Treasured memories still live on,
And holy day-dreams of a morrow,
When I shall re-clasp mine own.
Treasured memories still live on,
And holy day-dreams of a morrow,
When I shall re-clasp mine own.
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