To N. N., on the Death of His Son

As in the mid-day sun the flower
Looks brightest, and then bends its head,
So fell thy son--how short his hour
Of bliss--how rapidly he fled!

Yet o’er his cradle--o’er his tomb,
An everlasting daylight shone;
A promise of bright days to come--
Why came he--only to be gone?

As mounts the incense to the skies,
A towering cloud--with cold, pale cheek
Thou saw’st him to his Maker rise,
And his own blessed country seek.

He gave to thee his last, last sigh,
Ere yet he heaved his latest breath;
He turn’d to thee his dying eye,
Ere it was mantled o’er by death.

Thou hadst indulged the sweetest dream
Which hope e’er built, or time decay’d;
And in the future’s distant beam
Thy son a friend, a brother made.

The hours of youth’s delightful reign,
And rapture’s early, spring-tide joy;
Thou in his smiles hadst shared again,
And in thy boy wert twice a boy.

That vision is departed--Sleep
Soon leaves the weary, mortal eye:
Go--with his funeral cypress--weep;
Thy spirit’s peace is slumbering nigh.

With thine my mingling tears I’ll bring--
Their bitterness he cannot know;--
The morning-rose I’ll o’er him fling--
He was a rose of morning too.