Elegy On The Death Of An Infant Poem by John Wilson

Ere Margaret was three months old,
Her father laid her in the mould!
Poor Babe! her fleeting visit here
Was marked by many a sigh and tear,
And sudden starts of unknown pain
Oft seemed to shake her little brain!
Scarcely unto her ear was known
A yearning mother's gentle tone;
She could not by her smiles repay
The sleepless night, the anxious day;
And yet, at times, her eyes would rest
With gladness on that mother's breast,
And sinking, with a murmur there,
Like a hushed stir of vernal air,
We saw her little bosom move
Blest by the genial fount of love!
Gently the stroke of death did come,
And sent her to a heavenly home;
Ev'n like the wild harp's transient strain,
She slept—and never woke again!
And now, beneath her spotless shroud,
Like a pale star behind a cloud,
Or a young flower that dies in May,
Chilled by hoar-frost—the Baby lay.
Ah, me! it was a sad delight,
Through the dim stillness of the night,
While grief the glimmering air possest,
To mark her little bed of rest!
The sweet child bore no looks of death,
She seemed alive, though 'reft of breath;
Her lips retained their sunny glow,
But her cold cheek was pale as snow!
While thus she lay, no painful trace
Broke the fair silence of her face;
But something like a smile did play
Over the dead insensate clay,
As if a happy dream had shed
A halo round that guiltless head.
At morning light we took our way,
To drop the dear babe in the clay.
No mourners might that corse attend,
Save father—servant—neighbour—friend;
For none but real weepers gave
A blessing to mine infant's grave.
The vernal noon was soft and mild,
Meet for the funeral of a child;
Round the small grave the sunbeams stole,
Pure as the infant's sainted soul.
And th' opening heavens appeared to shed
A loving lustre o'er the dead.
The fair unfolding buds of Spring
Sustained our quiet sorrowing;
For wide o'er the rejoicing earth
Wild-flowers were springing in their mirth,
Of many a bright and heavenly dye,
Emblems of sinless infancy.
Oh! fairer, sweeter far than they,
My Flower now dropt into the clay!
Shut by the sod roof, smooth and even,
Her blossoms from the dews of heaven!
When evening came, the silent hearth,
Two nights before alive with mirth,
With dim and languid lustre shone,
As if it knew our babe was gone.
At once our spirits felt beguiled
Of grief—we spake not of our child—
Yet every word we softly said,
Told that our thoughts were with the dead.
I looked into the mother's face,
And a calm smile had taken place
Of tears, by Jesu's self approved!
Our only child, so much beloved,
Had left us for a cradle blest
Beyond a mortal mother's breast.—
We knew—we felt that God was kind—
What awful bliss to be resigned!
And is our home a silent cell
Moved only by the passing-bell,
That on that May-day morning clear
All our kind village wept to hear?
No—it is filled from morn till night
With smiles, shouts, dances of delight,
And songs of nature's bursting glee,
And wild elves' mimic minstrelsy;
And rosy cheeks are sparkling there,
And orbs glide by of golden hair;
And white arms wreathed in loving ring,
While Innocence is dallying
With that bright shape—her brother Joy!
—Who gave them may again destroy—
But dance along, ye blithesome crew,
And I will join the pastime too;
For whether on life's mystic Tree
Fair blossoms shine resplendently,
Or one chill blast of passing air
Hath swept its broken branches bare,
The tempests blow, the sunbeams shine,
Alike, from Mercy's awful Shrine.