LINESUPON SEEING A BEAUTIFUL INFANT SLEEPING ON THE BOSOM OF ITS MOTHER.Upon its native pillow dear,The little slumb’rer finds repose;His fragrant breath eludes the ear—A zephyr passing o’er a rose.Yet soon from that pure spot of rest(Love’s little throne!) shalt thou be torn;Time hovers o’er thy downy nest,To crown thy baby-brow with thorn.Ah! thoughtless! couldst thou now but seeOn what a world thou soon must move,Or taste the cup prepar’d for theeOf grief, lost hopes, or widow’d love,Ne’er from that breast thou’d’st raise thine head,But thou would’st breathe to Heav’n a pray’rTo let thee, ere thy blossom fade,In one fond sigh exhale thee there.
Upon its native pillow dear,The little slumb’rer finds repose;His fragrant breath eludes the ear—A zephyr passing o’er a rose.Yet soon from that pure spot of rest(Love’s little throne!) shalt thou be torn;Time hovers o’er thy downy nest,To crown thy baby-brow with thorn.Ah! thoughtless! couldst thou now but seeOn what a world thou soon must move,Or taste the cup prepar’d for theeOf grief, lost hopes, or widow’d love,Ne’er from that breast thou’d’st raise thine head,But thou would’st breathe to Heav’n a pray’rTo let thee, ere thy blossom fade,In one fond sigh exhale thee there.