15. As a wayward child my heavenly Father corrected me; as a chastened penitent he called me to his bosom. 16. Hope not, vain mortal, that a sculptur'd bust The proudest potentate that fills a throne "Who rais'd yon mouldering monument?" I sigh'd, 17. Baby, baby, sleeping baby, No rude sound shall break thy rest; Soft as on thy mother's breast. Peace shall linger here, and give thee O, no, that may never be: There are realms of joy and glory High in heaven reserv'd for thee. When the trump that wakes the wicked Though their ears with terrors tingle, "Baby, baby, sleeping baby, Wake thee with immortal charms; Light, and love, and heaven are round thee: Glory's crown upon thy brow; Rise, and with thy spirit praise him: 18. The lowly tenant of this grave design'd If this be praise, while in the world we dwell, To do our duty, and to do it well, A brighter lustre to this stone is lent Than shines round many a marble monument. 19. Art thou a thoughtless child of mirth? Thy heart O let the moral reach! Art thou a child of sorrow? Stay; 20. If to lack the knowledge of the world be ignorance, he was ignorant. If to know him whom to know is life eternal be wisdom, he was wise. 21. O there is a heaven of enjoyment and love, The Saviour has suffer'd pain, peril, and loss, If thou art not found at the foot of his cross, A hell should affright thee, a heaven should allure; Thy life, O how short it may be! Think, then, what thy soul may enjoy or endure, And let Christ be a Saviour to thee. 22. If thou art bound by pleasure's spell, O wouldst thou dwell, with raptur'd eyes, "I am the way!" the Saviour cries: 23. Were tombs proportion'd to desert alone, 24. O God! if sinners did but know the doom 25. The stone that flatters the dead deceives the living. 26. As some kind parent, when beguil'd, So, when the trial-hour was past, And he the thorny path had trod, A Friend and Father in his God. 27. This world is a desert where beautiful flowers And thither the choicest he first removes, And when he has gather'd in all he loves, Even all who to slight his grace have dar'd, For a furnace fierce has his wrath prepar'd, |