Came oftener on our hearts than thy dear cry
Of infant joyousness. Thy few brief months
Were months of suffering; ay, thy cup of life
Was bitter, bitter, but thou wast not doomed
To drain it, for a God of mercy soon
Let it pass from thee.
Oh! how well, my child,
Do I remember that all mournful day,
When thy young mother bore thy wasting form,
With breaking heart and streaming eyes, afar,