ON AN INFANT'S DEATH.
A year has passed, and thou, my child,
Art numbered with the early dead;
No power of grief, nor anguish wild,
Can raise thee from thy lone cold bed.
Art numbered with the early dead;
No power of grief, nor anguish wild,
Can raise thee from thy lone cold bed.
Oh! blest is memory's holy power:
In dreams I clasp my baby boy.
Yes, thou art with me every hour,
My bosom's lost though treasured joy.
In dreams I clasp my baby boy.
Yes, thou art with me every hour,
My bosom's lost though treasured joy.
I see thee in thy infant grace,
Smiling in beauty, soft and mild;
And is the sunshine of thy face
For ever shadowed?—oh, my child!
Smiling in beauty, soft and mild;
And is the sunshine of thy face
For ever shadowed?—oh, my child!
First gem of love's all-dazzling power—
First bud of beauty, blossom fair!
First bud of beauty, blossom fair!
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