Classic Poem

How blest thy infant daughter now,
How sweet is her repose;
Before Almighty God does bow,
Forever — and no close.

Thy infant is a seraph now,
Parents shed thou no tear;
But then in God do thou
E'er trust, — and like him do appear.

Thy beauteous smile was ever fair,
Thy lip and eye was bright,
Thy mother mourn'd the ceasing care,
Which was to her delight.

A fairer babe there hast not been,
Clung to its mother's breast;
But with thee then decease was seen,
It ceas'd, — and thou didst rest.

Then parents count her death no loss,
But rather count it gain;
Nor do with looks of sore remorse,
Even wish her back again.

Then at the last — the judgment day,
Thy infant dear shall rise,
And heavenly scenes to her portray,
Her home — the heavenly skies.

Then at that solemn, trying hour,
The wicked oft will say,
O! that divine almighty power,
Would send a heavenly ray.