Poems (E. L. F.)/On an infant's death

by E. L. F.

ON AN INFANT'S DEATH.

A year has passed, and thou, my child,
 Art numbered with the early dead;
No power of grief, nor anguish wild,
 Can raise thee from thy lone cold bed.

Oh! blest is memory's holy power:
 In dreams I clasp my baby boy.
Yes, thou art with me every hour,
 My bosom's lost though treasured joy.

I see thee in thy infant grace,
 Smiling in beauty, soft and mild;
And is the sunshine of thy face
 For ever shadowed?—oh, my child!

First gem of love's all-dazzling power—
 First bud of beauty, blossom fair!
First hope of every brighter hour,
 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?

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.

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.

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.