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ON SEEING A LADY AT THE GRAVE OF HER INFANT SON.
Discons'late at thy infant's tomb,While ev'ning wraps the world in gloom, Why, lovely mourner, art thou laid?Nought here remains but mould'ring clay—To realms of everlasting day, Th' immortal soul has fled!
Oh! think upon the many caresThat might have dimm'd his future years, Had the dear, cherish'd boy been spar'd,—But pain and sorrow's ghastly bandCan never reach the blessed land For happy souls prepar'd.
Then quit this dark and mournful scene,And seek thy social home again, Where thy surviving babes shall smile,And clasp thee in their little arms,And with a thousand artless charms Thy ev'ry care beguile.
Be thine the task to lead their youthThrough all the paths of moral truth;— To thee the solemn charge is giv'n,To watch their steps through ev'ry snare,To rear them with a mother's care, And fit their souls for heav'n!
