| I saw where in the shroud did lurk |
| A curious frame of Nature’s work; |
| A flow’ret crushéd in the bud, |
| A nameless piece of Babyhood, |
| Was in her cradle-coffin lying; |
| Extinct, with scarce the sense of
dying: |
| So soon to exchange the imprisoning
womb |
| For darker closets of the tomb! |
| She did but ope an eye, and put |
| A clear beam forth, then straight up
shut |
| For the long dark: ne’er more to see |
| Through glasses of mortality. |
| Riddle of destiny, who can show |
| What thy short visit meant, or know |
| What thy errand here below? |
| Shall we say, that Nature blind |
| Check’d her hand, and changed her mind |
| Just when she had exactly wrought |
| A finish’d pattern without fault? |
| Could she flag, or could she tire, |
| Or lack’d she the Promethean fire |
| (With her nine moons’ long workings
sicken’d) |
| That should thy little limbs have
quicken’d? |
| Limbs so firm, they seem’d to assure |
| Life of health, and days mature; |
| Woman’s self in miniature! |
| Limbs so fair, they might supply |
| (Themselves now but cold imagery) |
| The sculpture to make Beauty by. |
| Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry |
| That babe or mother, one must die; |
| So in mercy left the stock |
| And cut the branch; to save the shock |
| Of young years widow’d, and the pain |
| When Single State comes back again |
| To the lone-man who, reft of wife, |
| Thenceforeward drags a maiméd life? |
| The economy of Heaven is dark, |
| And wisest clerks have miss’d the mark |
| Why human buds, like this, should fall |
| More brief than fly ephemeral |
| That has his day; while shrivell’d
cronies |
| Stiffen with age to stocks and stones; |
| And crabbéd use the conscience sears |
| In sinners of an hundred years. |
| ―Mother’s prattle, mother’s kiss, |
| Baby fond, thou ne’er wilt miss: |
| Rites, which custom does impose, |
| Silver bells, and baby clothes; |
| Coral redder than those lips |
| Which pale death did late eclipse; |
| Music framed for infants’ glee, |
| Whistle never tuned for thee; |
| Though thou want’st not, thou shalt
have them, |
| Loving hearts 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 thee deny |
| Thy pretty toys with thee to lie― |
A more harmless vanity?
|
| Charles Lamb
| Classic Poems |
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[ Hester ] [ On An Infant Dying As Soon As Born ] [ The Old Familiar Faces ] |
