On the death of a child.

WAKE up, my muse, condole the loss Of those who mourn this day; Let tears run down on every face, And every mourner pray.

The tyrant death came rushing in, And here, his pow'r to show; With icy hand he touched this child, And laid its visage low.

No more the pleasant child is seen, To please the parent s eye; The tender plant, so fresh and green, Is in eternity.

The golden bowl by death is broke, The pitcher burst in twain; The cistern wheel hast felt the stroke, The pleasant child is slain.

The winding sheet enfolds its limbs, The coffin holds it fast; To-day 'tis seen by all its friends, But this must be the last—

Until the Lord doth come to judge, The nations great and small; When you and I the test shall stand, Or at his presence fall.