Dirge for an Infant

He is dead and gone — a flower 
Born and withered in an hour. 
Coldly lies the death-frost now 
On his little rounded brow;
And the seal of darkness lies
Ever on his shrouded eyes.
He will never feel again
Touch of human Joy or pain,
Never will his once bright eyes
Open with a glad surprise;
Nor the death-frost leave his brow —
All is over with him now.

Vacant now his cradle-bed, 
As a nest from whence hath fled 
Some dear little bird, whose wings 
Rest from timid flutterings. 
Thrown aside the childish rattle; 
Hushed for aye the infant prattle — 
Little broken words that could 
By none else be understood, 
Save the childless one who weeps 
O'er the grave where now he sleeps. 
Closed his eyes, and cold his brow — 
All is over with him now!