Poem on the death of an infant

Here is the second poem I mentioned in my previous post. 

A Funeral Poem on the Death of C. E. an Infant of Twelve Months

Phillis Wheatley (1753–1784)

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 smiling 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 forbear,
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.

On seeing a deceased infant

As I guess is the domain of the life-long literary scholar, in my grief I have turned to literature for comfort, as well as curiosity. I have begun to think about how dead or dying children have been portrayed in literature throughout the ages - to reflect on what I already know about this theme in nineteenth-century fiction, like that of Dickens, and to seek out answers to what I don't know, which is a lot. During my reading, I've come across a couple of lovely poems, which I want to share here. I'll come back to my research in another post, at another time, after I've read much more widely. But here is a poem. The last stanza made me cry.

On Seeing a Deceased Infant
By William B. O. Peabody (1799–1847)

AND this is death! how cold and still,
And yet how lovely it appears!
Too cold to let the gazer smile,
But far too beautiful for tears.
The sparkling eye no more is bright,
The cheek hath lost its rose-like red;
And yet it is with strange delight
I stand and gaze upon the dead.

But when I see the fair wide brow,
Half shaded by the silken hair, 
That never look’d so fair as now,
When life and health were laughing there
I wonder not that grief should swell
So wildly upward in the breast,
And that strong passion once rebel
That need not, cannot be suppress’d.

I wonder not that parents’ eyes
In gazing thus grow cold and dim,
That burning tears and aching sighs
Are blended with the funeral hymn; 
The spirit hath an earthly part,
That weeps when earthly pleasure flies,
And heaven would scorn the frozen heart
That melts not when the infant dies.

And yet why mourn? that deep repose
Shall never more be broke by pain;
Those lips no more in sighs unclose,
Those eyes shall never weep again.
For think not that the blushing flower
Shall wither in the church-yard sod,
’T was made to gild an angel’s bower
Within the paradise of God.

Once more I gaze—and swift and far
The clouds of death in sorrow fly,
I see thee like a new-born star 
Move up thy pathway in the sky:
The star hath rays serene and bright,
But cold and pale compared with thine;
For thy orb shines with heavenly light,
With beams unfailing and divine. 

Then let the burthen’d heart be free,
The tears of sorrow all be shed,
And parents calmly bend to see
The mournful beauty of the dead;
Thrice happy—that their infant bears
To heaven no darkening stains of sin;
And only breathed life’s morning airs
Before its evening storms begin.

Farewell! I shall not soon forget!
Although thy heart hath ceased to beat, 
My memory warmly treasures yet
Thy features calm and mildly sweet;
But no, that look is not the last,
We yet may meet where seraphs dwell,
Where love no more deplores the past, 
Nor breathes that withering word—farewell.