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.