an eye, and put
A clear beam forth, then straight up shut
For the long dark: neer more to see
glasses of mortality.
Riddle of destiny, who can show
What thy short visit meant, or know
What thy errand here
Shall we say that Nature blind
Checkd her hand, and changed her mind,
Just when she had exactly
A finishd pattern without fault?
Could she flag, or could she tire,
Or lackd she the Promethean
(With her nine moons long workings sickend)
That should thy little limbs have quickend?
firm, they seemd to assure
Life of health, and days mature:
Womans self in miniature!
Limbs so fair, they
(Themselves now but cold imagery)
The sculptor to make Beauty by.
Or did the stern-eyed
That babe or mother, one must die;
So in mercy left the stock
And cut the branch; to save
Of young years widowd, and the pain
When single state comes back again
To the lone man
who, reft of wife,
Thenceforward drags a maimàed life?
The economy of Heaven is dark,
And wisest clerks
have missd the mark,
Why human buds, like this, should fall,
More brief than fly ephemeral
That has his
day; while shrivelld crones
Stiffen with age to stocks and stones;
And crabbàed use the conscience sears
sinners of an hundred years.
Mothers prattle, mothers kiss,
Baby fond, thou neer wilt miss:
Rites, which custom does impose,
bells, and baby clothes;
Coral redder than those lips
Which pale death did late eclipse;
Music framed for
Whistle never tuned for thee;
Though thou wantst not, thou shalt have them,
were they which gave them.
Let not one be missing; nurse,
See them laid upon the hearse
Of infant slain
by doom perverse.
Why should kings and nobles have
Pictured trophies to their grave,
And we, churls, to
Thy pretty toys with thee to lie
A more harmless vanity?
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