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A Funeral Poem On The Death Of C. E. An Infant Of Twelve Months

Through airy roads he wings his instant flight
To purer regions of celestial light;
Enlarg'd he sees unnumber'd systems roll,
Beneath him sees the universal whole,
Planets on planets run their destin'd round,
And circling wonders fill the vast profound.
Th' ethereal now, and now th' empyreal skies
With growing splendors strike his wond'ring eyes:
The angels view him with delight unknown,
Press his soft hand, and seat him on his throne;
Then smilling thus: 'To this divine abode,
'The seat of saints, of seraphs, and of God,
'Thrice welcome thou.' The raptur'd babe replies,
'Thanks to my God, who snatch'd me to the skies,
'E'er vice triumphant had possess'd my heart,
'E'er yet the tempter had beguil d my heart,
'E'er yet on sin's base actions I was bent,
'E'er yet I knew temptation's dire intent;
'E'er yet the lash for horrid crimes I felt,
'E'er vanity had led my way to guilt,
'But, soon arriv'd at my celestial goal,
'Full glories rush on my expanding soul.'
Joyful he spoke: exulting cherubs round
Clapt their glad wings, the heav'nly vaults resound.
Say, parents, why this unavailing moan?
Why heave your pensive bosoms with the groan?
To Charles, the happy subject of my song,
A brighter world, and nobler strains belong.
Say would you tear him from the realms above
By thoughtless wishes, and prepost'rous love?
Doth his felicity increase your pain?
Or could you welcome to this world again
The heir of bliss? with a superior air
Methinks he answers with a smile severe,
'Thrones and dominions cannot tempt me there.'
But still you cry, 'Can we the sigh borbear,
'And still and still must we not pour the tear?
'Our only hope, more dear than vital breath,
'Twelve moons revolv'd, becomes the prey of death;
'Delightful infant, nightly visions give
'Thee to our arms, and we with joy receive,
'We fain would clasp the Phantom to our breast,
'The Phantom flies, and leaves the soul unblest.'
To yon bright regions let your faith ascend,
Prepare to join your dearest infant friend
In pleasures without measure, without end.

User Rating: 3,1 / 5 ( 77 votes ) 6

Comments (6)

Max I loved this poem of yours.. it's your silent cry as a poet when you think that inspiration has left you just because you write less poems. I can assure you that your muse is still there even if you have understood yourself a bit more and you have stopped to write poems in search of your inner truths. HBH
the same stuff in stars in Max burning and burning until there is nothing but burning and each breath needs no explanation simply going about the business of keeping Max alive and kicking and more importantly singing in own song in his own voice a wonderful poem exploring the the true meaning of our birth and death
Yikes. Kind of moody and depressing, I would say. I agree with John about the last line though.
Max...the last sentence is one of the best conclusions I've read in some time. It is so silent but so loud, lost but found. It is two places at once and, therefore, poetry. I don't see how anyone could give this a low score.
Ben said that sometimes...we, poets, artists, people, go through 'compassion overload' - too much goes on around this time of year....I get the 'blues' too....Silence is a place I go to to heal myself....but I can't stay there...there's too much to be done.
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