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