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As the sweet flower that scents the morn,
but withers in the rising day;
thus lovely was this infant's dawn,
thus swiftly fled its life away.
It died ere its expanding soul
had ever burnt with wrong desires,
had ever spurned at heaven's control,
or ever quenched its sacred fires.
It died to sin, it died to cares,
but for a moment felt the rod:
O mourner, such, the Lord declares,
such are the children of our God.
"On the Death of an Infant"