To an Infant

Sure 'tis a holy and a healing thought
That fills my heart and mind at sight of thee,
Thou purest abstract of humanity.
Sweet infant, we might deem thy smile was brought
From some far distant Paradise, where nought
Forbad to hope whate'er of good may be,
Where thou could'st know, and feel, and taste, and see
That innocence which, lost, is vainly sought
In this poor world. Yet, if thou wert so good
As love conceives thee, thou had'st ne'er been born ;
For sure the Lord of Justice never would
Have doom'd a loyal spirit to be shorn
Of its immortal glories — never could
Exile perfection to an earth forlorn.