It is seldom that lines more pure and beautiful can be found, than the following on the death of children:—
"Sure, to the mansions of the blest
When infant innocence ascends,
Some angel brighter than the rest
The spotless spirit's flight attends.
"On wings of ecstacy they rise,
Beyond where worlds material roll,
Till some fair sister of the skies
Receives the unpolluted soul.
"There at the Almighty Father's hand,
Nearest the throne of living light,
The choirs of infant seraphs stand,
And dazzling shine, where all are bright.
"The inextinguishable beam,
With dust united at our birth,
Sheds a more dim, discolored gleam,
The more it lingers upon earth:
"Closed is the dark abode of clay,
The stream of glory faintly burns,
Nor unobscured the lucid ray
To its own native fount returns:
"But when the Lord of mortal breath
Decrees his bounty to resume,
And points the silent shaft of death,
Which speeds an infant to the tomb,
"No passion fierce, no low desire,
Has quenched the radiance of the flame;
Back to its God the living fire
Returns, unsullied, as it came."
The heart which could turn aside from the stern conflicts of the political world, and utter sentiments so chaste and tender, must have been the residence of the sweetest and noblest emotions of man.
Having taken final leave, as he believed, of the duties of public life, and retired to the beloved shades of Quincy, it was the desire and intention of Mr. Adams to devote the remainder of his days to the peaceful pursuits of literature. It had long been his purpose, whenever opportunity should offer, to write a history of the life and times of his venerated father, "the elder Adams." His heart was fixed on this design, and some introductory labors had been commenced. But an overruling Providence had a widely different work in preparation for him.