On The Death Of A Young Gentleman, In The Eighth Year Of His Life

DEAR suffering Friend, what anguish rends thy heart!
Could Pity's voice but soothe thy pungent grief!
Pierced with Affliction's keenest-pointed dart,
What words can yield thy tortur'd soul relief?
Ah! vain are words the anguish'd heart to calm,
Tho' tenderest sympathy inspire the line;
In vaint soft Pity pours her lenient balm,
When the fond Mother mourns a loss like thine.
Thy Son cut off from life when Reason's ray
Had just illumed fair Childhood's opening bloom;
When smiling Hope foretold a splendid day,
Alas! immerg'd in night he asks a tomb.
Yet, yet he lives! tho' veil'd from mortal sight,
By angels wafted to the realms of love;
His guiltless spirit clad with beams of light,
His cherub tongue thus greets thee from above:
"Dear Parent, cease for me that plaintive sigh!
" 'Twas heav'nly mercy call'd me from below,
"To be thy watchful guardian hovering nigh,
"To shield thy soul from many a secret woe.
"Snatch'd from the world ere yet my spotless breast
"The taint of vice or sinful passions know;
"Amid th' eternal seats of bliss and rest,
"My Saviours glories I with transport view.
"And when (a few short years of trial o'er)
"Thy spirit, freed from earth, shall wing her flight,
"The Child whose loss thy fruitless tears deplore,
"Restored shall ever bless thy raptured sight.
"Thy mind submiss let Resignation bend,
"(Hope bids the path of settled grief to shun)
"While from thy tongue these pious strains ascend
'' Lord! not my will but thine alone be done!"