"Well, God is its own dear Father,
It was carried to church and bless'd;
And our Saviour's arms will gather
Such children to their rest.
"I will check this foolish sorrow,
For what God doth is best;
But oh! 'tis a month to-morrow
I buried it from my breast."
Note.--For further information see my Vicar of Morwenstow. New and revised edition. Methuen. 1899.