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Unhappy, she who gave thee birth, And fondly on thy beauties smil'd, Resigns thee to thy parent earth, And takes the last look of her child; And sure thou wast the sweetest flow'r, That deck'd thy sorrowing father's bow'r!
Dark and unlovely to thy infant view, Appear'd this life, for scarce the gift was giv'n,Ere with a smile thou bad'st the world adieu, And wing'd again thy spotless soul to Heav'n. But once I clasp'd thee to my breast, And fondly held thee in my arms; But once thy ruby lips I press'd, And gaz'd upon thy op'ning charms:— Yet that one look did win my heart, And from thee I was loth to part.
Heart-struck with sorrow, o'er thy little urn See thy sad mother bend, with streaming eye;But, ah! 'tis vain—'tis impious—thus to mourn Her child, a cherub in the starry sky!— When past is ev'ry wint'ry storm, And summer flow'rs begin to bloom, A simple fragrant wreath I'll form, And hang it on thy early tomb: While tears of soft regret bedew The turf that hides thee from my view.
