Death of an infant.

SO fades the lovely, blooming flow'r, Frail, smiling solace of an hour So soon our transient comforts fly, And pleasure only blooms to die.

Is there no kind, no healing art, To soothe the anguish of the heart? Divine Redeemer, be thou nigh: Thy comforts were not made to die.

Then gentle patience smiles on pain, And dying hope revives again; Hope wipes the tear from sorrow's eye, And faith points upward to the sky.