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Written on the Illness of an Infant.

Death, Death! thy terrors stay,
Turn thy ruthless dart away;
Eyes that beam’d with heav’nly ray
                            Now languish.

Let the bud of beauty blow,
Let the stream of gladness flow,
Break not hearts that weeping bow
                            With anguish.

Seek the victims passions bring,
Crush’d hearts—‘neath sorrow withering—
Oh! turn aside thy fatal sting
                            But for a while.

Blight not the roses on the cheek—
(Roses youth’s gay summer speak)—
Cloud not the mind and heart so meek:
                            They know not guile.

Take the forms bowed low by time,
Search the dens of rankling crime,
Men festering in guilt’s noisome slime,
                            These are thy prey:

Thy home is on red battle-fields,
Thy harvest where the pest-house yields
Its thousands, and the tempest wields
                            Fear and dismay.

But cast not here thy withering blight,
Change not our glowing day to night,
Cloud not this scene so fair and bright
                            With visions of the tomb.

For, oh! thy presence here would make
A void where all was joy, would take
The light from love, and keenly ache
                            Hearts sunk in gloom.

P. C. L.

Kingston, Jamaica, 1844.