No more he meets them at the gate,
No breezes waft his silver’d hair,
While o’er the dead, both small and great,
His soul breathes out the ardent prayer!
Nor from his eye, when grave-scenes call,
His streaming tears are seen to flow,—
Those tears, which to the earth did fall,
And mingle with the dust below.
No more he at the altar stands,
To bless, or break the hallow’d bread,
While from his lips and lifted hands,
Each hungry, holy soul is fed!
But mingled happy saints among,
His ravish’d soul doth now ascend,
To share that bliss which he so long,
To others here did recommend.
AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A BELOVED CHILD.
My little boy! my lovely boy!
Why in such haste away?
Will no embrace, or tempting toy,
Induce thy longer stay?
What prompted thee the day before,
To climb thy Father’s knee,—
Spring to the window or the door,
With such unusual glee?
I wonder oft, with wakeful eye,
And think it might be so,
Some Spirit then was passing by,
And beckon’d thee to go!
I recollect with other things,
Which I have felt and fear’d,
Once something like the sound of wings,
Within the room was heard!