Epitaph On The Tombstone Of A Child
This Little, Silent, Gloomy Monument,
Contains all that was sweet and innocent;
The softest pratler that e’er found a Tongue,
His Voice was Musick and his Words a Song;
Which now each List’ning Angel smiling hears,
Such pretty Harmonies compose the Spheres;
Wanton as unfledg’d Cupids, ere their Charms
Has learn’d the little arts of doing harms;
Fair as young Cherubins, as soft and kind,
And tho translated could not be refin’d;
The Seventh dear pledge the Nuptial Joys had given,
Toil’d here on Earth, retir’d to rest in Heaven;
Where they the shining Host of Angels fill,
Spread their gay wings before the Throne, and smile.
