To A Lady, On The Death Of Her Infant Son.

RESPECTED Lady! whilst thy heart
Still feels the recent wound,
Some solace might the Muse impart,
Or breath one soothing sound!
Though early mingled with the dead,
Thy much-lov'd Infant falls;
Yet, though he droops his beauteous head,
When Fate, relentless calls;
Aloft the smiling Cherub flies,
He joins th' angelic throng:
Hark! how he's welcom'd to the skies,
In sweet, seraphic song!
His spotless innocence insures,
Amid the realms of Peace,
Joy, which beyond Time's bound endures,
With life that ne'er shall cease.
Though the grim tyrant Death's chill hand
Has nipt thy budding flow'r,
Some lovely blossoms yet shall stand,
To bless each future hour.
Yet when a Parent's heart o'erflows,
With tend'rest grief opprest,
What words can charm those poignant woes,
Or soothe the wounded breast?
Still shall the pensive Fancy dwell
On what was late so dear,
And fond Remembrance oft impel
The sad material tear.
Oh! say, can Sympathy impart
One gleam of soft relief,
'Till lenient Time shall draw the dart,
And still the voice of Grief?