The Beautiful Child

Fair child, whose gem of genius burn'dIn beauty's purest gold enshrined,On whom the eye of strangers turn'dWith wonder and delight combined,

Whose tender, tuneful voice doth keepFresh echo while long seasons roll,As music, though the lute-strings sleep,Still lingereth in the master's soul,

We will not say how early fled!Nor, darkly murmuring, mark thy date,Though Grief's most bitter tear be shed,And home's fond temple desolate;

For life is long that fills the roundWhich Heaven's own finger brightly traced,And many a form that age hath crown'dMust leave that circle unembraced.

But thine eternal life, how blest!O let its radiant image beA watch-light in the parents' breast,Till joyful they ascend to thee.