To an Infant in Heaven

Thou bright and star-like spirit!
That, in my visions wild,
I see mid heaven's seraphic host —
O! canst thou be my child?

My grief is quench'd in wonder,
And pride arrests my sighs;
A branch from this unworthy stock
Now blossoms in the skies.

Our hopes of thee were lofty,
But have we cause to grieve t
O! could our fondest, proudest wish
A nobler fate conceive?

The little weeper, tearless,
The sinner, snatch'd from sin;
The babe, to more than manhood grown,
Ere childhood did begin.

x\nd I, thy earthly teacher,
Would blush thy powers to see;
Thou art to me a parent now,
And I, a child to thee!

Thy brain, so uninstructed
While in this lowly state,
Now threads the mazy track of spheres,
Or reads the book of fate.

Thine eyes, so curb'd in vision,
Now range the realms of space —
Look down upon the rolling stars,
Look up to God's own face.

Thy little hand, so helpless,
That scarce its toys could hold,
Now clasps its mate in holy prayer,
Or twangs a harp of gold.

Thy feeble feet, unsteady,
That totter'd as they trod,
With angels walk the heavenly paths,
Or stand before their God.

Nor is thy tongue less skilful,
Before the throne divine
'T is pleading for a mother's weal,
As once she pray'd for thine.

What bliss is born of sorrow!
'T is never sent in vain —
The heavenly surgeon maims to save,
He gives no useless pain.

Our God, to call us homeward,
His only Son sent down,:
And now, still more to tempt our hearts,
Has taken up our own.