Poems Sigourney 1827/The Dead Infant

by Lydia Sigourney

THE DEAD INFANT.

I had a little tender flower,
I nursed it in my choicest bower,—
       No storm disturb'd the guest;
And even if the nightly dew
Hung heavy on its head,—I flew
       To warm it in my breast.—

And though to this my days were lent,—
For this,—my nights unslumbering spent.—
       Yet could I not repent,—
A nameless pleasure sooth'd my care,
I loved the plant,—I saw 't was fair,
       And knew by God 't was lent.

When watching o'er its balmy rest,
I pray'd,—"Oh be this blossom blest,
       Although in tears 't was sown;"
Then Death, whose form I did not see,
Still nearer sat, and watch'd with me,
       And claim'd it for his own.

But when he took it to his home,
That narrow house where all must come,
       Its cheek was deadly pale,—
On me, its eye imploring roll'd
To save it from a grasp so cold.
       Ah!—what could this avail?

Yet though he tore it from my arms,
 And crush'd its bloom, and changed its charms,
       And o'er it heap'd the clods,
And dimm'd its eye of gentle ray,
 And gave its form to worms a prey,
       It was not his,—but God's.

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