To a Bereaved Mother

Sure, to the mansions of the blest
When infant innocence ascends,
Some angel, brighter than the rest,
The spotless spirit's flight attends.
On wings of ecstasy they rise,
Beyond where worlds material roll;
Till some fair sister of the skies
Receives the unpolluted soul.
That inextinguishable beam,
With dust united at our birth,
Sheds a more dim, discolour'd gleam
The more it lingers upon earth....
But when the Lord of mortal breath
Decrees his bounty to resume,
And points the silent shaft of death
Which speeds an infant to the tomb —
No passion fierce, nor low desire,
Has quenched the radiance of the flame;
Back, to its God, the living fire
Reverts, unclouded as it came.
Fond mourner! be that solace thine!
Let Hope her healing charm impart,
And soothe, with melodies divine,
The anguish of a mother's heart.
Oh, think! the darlings of thy love,
Divested of this earthly clod,
Amid unnumber'd saints, above,
Bask in the bosom of their God....
O'er thee, with looks of love, they bend;
For thee the Lord of life implore;
And oft, from sainted bliss descend,
Thy wounded quiet to restore.
Then dry, henceforth, the bitter tear;
Their part and thine inverted see:
Thou wert their guardian angel here,
They guardian angels now to thee.