On the Death of My Son Charles

My son, thou wast my heart’s delight,   Thy morn of life was gay and cheery; That morn has rushed to sudden night,   Thy father’s house is sad and dreary. I held thee on my knee, my son!   And kissed thee laughing, kissed thee weeping; But ah! thy little day is done,   Thou ’rt with thy angel sister sleeping. The staff, on which my years should lean,   Is broken, ere those years come o’er me; My funeral rites thou shouldst have seen,   But thou art in the tomb before me. Thou rear’st to me no filial stone,   No parent’s grave with tears beholdest; Thou art my ancestor, my son!   And stand’st in Heaven’s account the oldest. On earth my lot was soonest cast,   Thy generation after mine, Thou hast thy predecessor past;   Earlier eternity is thine. I should have set before thine eyes   The road to Heaven, and showed it clear; But thou untaught spring’st to the skies,   And leav’st thy teacher lingering here. Sweet Seraph, I would learn of thee,   And hasten to partake thy bliss! And oh! to thy world welcome me,   As first I welcomed thee to this. Dear Angel, thou art safe in heaven;   No prayers for thee need more be made; Oh! let thy prayers for those be given   Who oft have blessed thy infant head. My father! I beheld thee born,   And led thy tottering steps with care; Before me risen to Heaven’s bright morn,   My son! my father! guide me there.