Death of an infant.

AS the sweet flow'r that scents the morn, But withers in the rising day, Thus lovely was this infant's dawn, Thus swiftly fled its life away.

It died ere its expanding soul Had ever burnt with wrong desires, Had ever spurn'd at heaven's control, Or ever quench'd its sacred fires.

Yet the sad hour that took the boy Perhaps has spared a heavier doom— Snatch'd him from scenes of guilty joy, Or from the pangs of ill to come.

He died to sin; he died to care; But for a moment felt the rod; Then, rising on the viewless air, Spread his light wings and soared to God.