| |
| NO more the flow’ry scenes of pleasure rise, | |
| Nor charming prospects greet the mental eyes, | |
| No more with joy we view that lovely face | |
| Smiling, disportive, flush’d with ev’ry grace. | |
| |
| The tear of sorrow flows from ev’ry eye, | 5 |
| Groans answer groans, and sighs to sighs reply; | |
| What sudden pangs shot thro’ each aching heart, | |
| When, Death, thy messenger dispatch’d his dart? | |
| Thy dread attendants, all-destroying Pow’r, | |
| Hurried the infant to his mortal hour. | 10 |
| Could’st thou unpitying close those radiant eyes? | |
| Or fail’d his artless beauties to surprize? | |
| Could not his innocence thy stroke controul, | |
| Thy purpose shake, and soften all thy soul? | |
| |
| The blooming babe, with shades of Death o’er-spread, | 15 |
| No more shall smile, no more shall raise its head, | |
| But, like a branch that from the tree is torn, | |
| Falls prostrate, wither’d, languid, and forlorn. | |
| “Where flies my James?” ’tis thus I seem to hear | |
| The parent ask, “Some angel tell me where | 20 |
| “He wings his passage thro’ the yielding air?” | |
| Methinks a cherub bending from the skies | |
| Observes the question, and serene replies, | |
| “In heav’ns high palaces your babe appears: | |
| Prepare to meet him, and dismiss your tears.” | 25 |
| Shall not th’ intelligence your grief restrain, | |
| And turn the mournful to the chearful strain? | |
| Cease your complaints, suspend each rising sigh, | |
| Cease to accuse the Ruler of the sky. | |
| Parents, no more indulge the falling tear: | 30 |
| Let Faith to heav’n’s refulgent domes repair, | |
| There see your infant, like a seraph glow: | |
| What charms celestial in his numbers flow | |
| Melodious, while the foul-enchanting strain | |
| Dwells on his tongue, and fills th’ ethereal plain? | 35 |
| Enough—for ever cease your murm’ring breath; | |
| Not as a foe, but friend converse with Death, | |
| Since to the port of happiness unknown | |
| He brought that treasure which you call your own. | |
| The gift of heav’n intrusted to your hand | 40 |
| Cheerful resign at the divine command: | |
| Not at your bar must sov’reign Wisdom stand. | |
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