To the Same, on the Death of Her Child

So fades the lovely, blooming flower,
Frail, smiling solace of an hour!
So soon our transient comforts fly,
And pleasure only blooms to die!
To certain trouble we are born,
Hope to rejoice, but sure to mourn.
Ah wretched effort! sad relief,
To plead necessity of grief!
Is there no kind, no lenient art
To heal the anguish of the heart?
To ease the heavy load of care.
Which nature must, but cannot bear?
Can reason's dictates be obey'd?
Too weak, alas, her strongest aid!
O let religion then be nigh,
Her comforts were not made to die;
Her pow'rful aid supports the soul,
And nature owns her kind control
While she unfolds the sacred page,
Our fiercest griefs resign their rage.
Then gentle patience smiles on pain,
And dying hope revives again;
Hope wipes the tear from sorrow's eye,
And faith points upward to the sky;
The promise guides her ardent flight,
And joys unknown to sense invite,
Those blissful regions to explore,
Where pleasure blooms to fade no more.