TO A DYING INFANT.
Go to thy rest, my child!
Go to thy dreamless bed,
Gentle and undefiled,
With blessings on thy head;
Fresh roses in thy hand,
Buds on thy pillow laid,
Haste from this fearful land,
Where flowers so quickly fade.
Before thy heart might learn
In waywardness to stray,
Before thy feet could turn
The dark and downward way;
Ere sin might wound the breast,
Or sorrow wake the tear,
Rise to thy home of rest,
In yon celestial sphere.
Because thy smile was fair,
Thy lip and eye so bright,
Because thy cradle-care
Was such a fond delight,
Shall Love with weak embrace
Thy heavenward flight detain?
No! Angel, seek thy place
Amid yon cherub-train.