Ere sin could blight, or sorrow fade, death came with friendly care; the opening but to heaven conveyed, and bade it blossom there.
Joy thou bringest, but mixed with trembling; anxious joys, and tender fears; pleasing hopes, and mingled sorrows; smiles of transport dashed with tears.
Beautiful as is the morning of day, so is the morning of life.—Fallen though we are, there remains a purity, modesty, ingenuousness and tenderness of conscience about childhood, that looks as if the glory of Eden yet lingered over it, like the light of the day on the hill tops, at even, when the sun is down.
They who have lost an infant are never, as it were, without an infant child. Their other children grow up to manhood and womanhood, and suffer all the changes of mortality; but this one is rendered an immortal child, for death has arrested it with his kindly harshness, and blessed it into an eternal image of youth and innocence.
Of all the joys that brighten suffering earth, what joy is welcomed like a newborn child?
A lovely bud, so soft, so fair, called hence by early doom; just sent to show how sweet a flower in paradise would bloom.
The glorified spirit of the infant, is as a star to guide the mother to its own blissful clime.
Heaven lies about us in our infancy.