AGED 7 WEEKS.
html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }WEET Baby! thou art slumbering
Upon thy mother's knee,
Unconscious still of all the love
That ceaseless girdles thee.
Thou know'st not yet the lips that oft
Thy soft cheek fondly press,
Nor all the untiring care that tends
Thy feeble helplessness.
I scarce know wherefore, but it seems
A solemn thing to me,
To watch a sleeping infant's brow,
From every passion free:
To mark the dark-fringed lids that touch
That cheek so pure and fair,
The soft-drawn breath, the little hands,
Folded as if in prayer.
Oh surely, something not of earth,
The mournful beauty seems
Of that calm brow, where still undimmed
Baptismal water gleams.
No marvel that our world-stained hearts
Should almost shrink with fear,
And feel a holy thing like this,
Brings Heaven itself more near.
Ah, there! how sweet the transient smile
That flits o'er lip and brow!
Fain would I know, my precious one!
The thoughts that bless thee now.
Oh, who can tell what glorious sights
Such sinless eyes may see;
How slight to them the veil that shrouds
Eternal things may be?
'Tis said, that village matrons deem,
A babe's unconscious eyes
Behold, in dreams, its future path
Like some dim vision rise:
But lovelier far the legend seems,
Of mine own native isle,
That angel voices whisper near,
When sleeping infants smile.
Yes; sweet the dream: perchance e'en now
They fan thee with their wings,
While softly on thy slumbering ear
Unearthly music rings.
And oh, how far more blest to know,
That in Heaven's highest place,
The angels of these little ones
Behold their Father's face.
Oh! never may the guardian eyes
Of those bright watchers, see
Earth's shadows quench the living light
That now hath dawned for thee.
I kiss the sign upon thy brow,
Thou treasure newly given,
And pray, our only thought may be
To train thee up for Heaven.
E.