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DIRGE FOR AN INFANT.
DIRGE FOR AN INFANT.
He is dead and gone—a flowerBorn and withered in an hour.Coldly lies the death-frost nowOn his little rounded brow;And the seal of darkness liesEver on his shrouded eyes.He will never feel againTouch of human joy or pain;Never will his once bright eyesOpen with a glad surprise,Nor the death-frost leave his brow—All is over with him now.
Vacant now his cradle-bed,As a nest from whence hath fledSome dear little bird, whose wingsRest from timid flutterings.Thrown aside the childish rattle,Hushed for aye the infant prattle;—Little broken words that couldBy none else be understoodSave the childless one who weepsO'er the grave where now he sleeps. Closed his eyes and cold his brow;—All is over with him now!
