On the Death of an Infant

Blest Babe! it at length has withdrawn,
The Seraphs have rocked it to sleep;

Away with an angelic smile it has gone,
And left a sad parent to weep!

It soars from the ocean of pain,

On breezes of precious perfume;
O be not discouraged when death is but gain—
The triumph of life from the tomb.

With pleasure I thought it my own,

And smil'd on its infantile charms;
But some mystic bird, like an eagle, came down,

And snatch'd it away from my arms.

Blest Babe, it ascends into Heaven,

It mounts with delight at the call;
And flies to the bosom from whence it was given,

The Parent and Patron of all.