P O E T R Y.

POETRY.

ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT.

I seem to feel a silent fear,

To break the sleep of death;
I listen oft, as though to hear,
The infant's gentle breath.

No more will that fair bosom heave;
How lovely heaven must be,
To tempt the soul thus soon to leave,
A form like that I see!

The infant smiles! as if to greet
Some loved, familiar face;
Nay, 'tis the princely foe to meet,
And feel his cold embrace.

I've seen thy cherub smile ere now,

Sweet infant! brightly shine,

When health and mirth beamed on thy brow,

And cloudless glee was thine.

And truly that was fair and bright,

As earthly smile could be;

But oh, it is not earth-born light,

Reflected now in thee.

Oh, did'st thou in thy upward way,
Fast hastening on the while,
Look back on thy forsaken clay,
To paint this rainbow smile?

Or if the moment that set free
The spirit from its clod,
Was also that to welcome thee,
Before the throne of God;

Then as before thee open flew
The portals of the skies,

And spread the bright celestial view,
At once before thine eyes,

"Twas thine to catch one taintless ray,

Of pure celestial grace;

And thus thy blessedness portray.

On this thine angel face?

Why, why should death so darksome seem?

To thee 'twas opening bliss!

I knew not heaven's reflected beam,

Could paint a smile like this.

-10th Month, 1840.

HOW MAY WE OBTAIN A CHEERFUL

DISPOSITION?

See, heaven its blessings kindly pour,

On man's unthankful head;

And generous earth her richest store,

Around him daily spread.

All he would ask for, heaven bestows,

To make him truly glad;

But he, inventing endless woes,

Is gloomy, dark and sad.

And yet, should man, who thus repines,
Attempt a world to build;

Could it display more fair designs,
With richer gifts be filled?

But if not all his heart could wish,
That generous hand bestows,
Should he forget the unmeasured stream,
Of unasked good that flows?

Life's needful store of daily bread.

He labours to provide;

But little thinks the slender thread,
By which that life is tied.

He little thinks how day by day,
A Father's watchful care,
Bestows each morning's cheering ray,

Each breath of vital air.

Thus calls he this a world of woe,
Where troubles banish rest;

But ah! 'twas man who made it so,
When God had made it blest.

Perhaps, to cheer him on his way,
Some joy is kindly sent,

Till heaven sees meet to take away,
The blessing that was lent