My babes, why were you born,
Since in life's early morn
Death overtook you, and, before
I could half love you, you were mine no more?
Walter, my own bright boy,
Hailed as the hope and joy
Of those who told thy grandsire's fame,
And looking, loved thee, even for thy name;
And thou, my Margaret dear,
Come as if sent to cheer
A widowed heart, ye both have fled,
And, life scarce tasted, lie among the dead!
Then, oh! why were you born?
Was it to make forlorn
A father who had happier been
If your sweet infant smiles he ne'er had seen?
Was it for this you came?
Dare I for you to blame
The God who gave and took again,
As though my joy was sent but to increase my pain?
Oh no! of Christmas bells
The cheerful music tells
Why you were born, and why you died,
And for my doubting doth me gently chide.
The infant Christ, who lay
On Mary's breast to-day,
Was He not born for you to die,
And you to bear your Saviour company?
Then stay not by the grave,
My heart, but up, and crave
Leave to rejoice, and hear the song
Of infant Jesus and His happy throng.
That wondrous throng, on earth
So feeble from its birth,
Which little thought, and little knew,
Now hath both God and man within its view!
Yes, you were born to die;
Then shall I grudging sigh
Because to you are sooner given
The crown, the palm, the angel joy of heaven?