Oh! ask for it not in this valley of sighs,
Where we smile but to weep, and we ne'er can find rest;
For the world we would wish shines afar in the skies,
Where sorrow 's unknown—'tis the home of the blest!
ON THE DEATH OF A PROMISING CHILD.
Oh! weep not thus, though the child thou hast loved,
Still, still as the grave, in silence sleeps on;
'Midst the tears that are shed, his eye is unmoved,
And the beat of that bosom for ever is gone:
Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest
When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!
The world to him, with its sorrows and sighs,
Has fled like a dream when the morn appears;
While the spirit awakes in the light of the skies,
No more to revisit this valley of tears:
Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest
When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!
Few, few were his years; but, had they been more,
The sunshine which smiled might have vanish'd away,
And he might have fallen on some far friendless shore,
Or been wreck'd amidst storms in some desolate bay:
Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest
When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!
Like a rosebud of promise, when fresh in the morn,
Was the child of thy heart while he lingered here;
But now from thy love, from thine arms he is torn,
Yet to bloom in a lovelier, happier sphere:
Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest
When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!
How happy the pilgrim whose journey is o'er,
Who, musing, looks back on its dangers and woes;
Then rejoice at his rest, for sorrow no more
Can start on his dreams, or disturb his repose:
Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest
When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!
Who would not recline on the breast of a friend,
When the night-cloud has lower'd o'er a sorrowful day?
Who would not rejoice at his journey's end,
When perils and toils encompass'd his way?
Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest
When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!