Pictured trophies to their grave,

Of infant slain by doom perverse.

Which pale death did late eclipse;

A clear beam forth, then straight up shut

The economy of Heaven is dark,

Of young years widowd, and the pain

(With her nine moons long workings sickend)

Music framed for infants glee,

So soon to exchange the imprisoning womb

Womans self in miniature!

Silv九_九_藏_書er bells, and baby clothes;

Coral redder than those lips

And cut the branch; to save the shock

Loving hearts were they which gave them.

And crabbèd use the conscience sears

So in mercy left the stock

Or lackd she the Promethean fire

Limbs so firm, they seemd to assure

When single state comes back again

A nameless piece of Babyhood,

See them laihttps://read.99csw.comd upon the hearse

For darker closets of the tomb!

Stiffen with age to stocks and stones;

Limbs so fair, they might supply

I saw where in the shroud did lurk

She did but ope an eye, and put

A floweret crushd in the bud,

What thy short visit meant, or know

That has his day; while shrivelld crones

Whistle never tuned for thee;

Let not one be missin九-九-藏-書g; nurse,

For the long dark: neer more to see

To the lone man who, reft of wife,

Why human buds, like this, should fall,

In sinners of an hundred years.

A finishd pattern without fault?

And wisest clerks have missd the mark,

A more harmless vanity?

Life of health, and days mature:

Just when she had exactly wrought

That should thy little limbs have quickend?

read.99csw.comShall we say that Nature blind

What thy errand here below?

(Themselves now but cold imagery)

Was in her cradle-coffin lying;

Thenceforward drags a maimèd life?

Could she flag, or could she tire,

More brief than fly ephemeral

Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying:

Baby fond, thou neer wilt miss:

Thy pretty toys with thee to lie;

Rites, which custom does impose,九*九*藏*書

Though thou wantst not, thou shalt have them,

Checkd her hand, and changed her mind,

A curious frame of Nature』s work;

Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry

Mothers prattle, mothers kiss,

Why should kings and nobles have

That babe or mother, one must die;

Riddle of destiny, who can show

And we, churls, to thee deny

The sculptor to make Beauty by.

Through glasses of mortality.