O fairest flow'r; no sooner blown than blasted,
Soft silken primrose faded timelessly.--_Milton_.
It was an infant dying! and I stood
Watching beside its couch, to mark how Death,
His hour being come, would steal away the breath
Of one so young, so innocent, so good.
Friends also waited near--and now the blood
'Gan leave the tender cheek, and the dark eye
To lose its wonted lustre. Suddenly
Slight tremblings o'er him came; anon, subdued
To utter passiveness, the sufferer lay,
Far, far more beautiful in his decay
Than e'er methought before! I held his hand
Fast lock'd in mine, and felt more feebly flow
The pulse already faint and fluttering. Lo!
It ceased; I turn'd, and bow'd to God's command.[1]
[Footnote 1: Samuel II. Chap. xii.--22, 23.]
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