Note 336 — DE LA LITTÉRATURE DES NÈGRES.

No more the flo'wry scenes of pleasure rise, Nor charming prospects greet the mental eyes, No more with joy we view that lovely face Smiling, disportive, flush'd with ev'ry grace. The tear of forrow flows from ev'ry eye, Groans answer groans, and sighs to sighs reply; What sudden pangs shot thro' each aching heart, When, Death, thy messenger dispatch'd his dart? Thy dread attendants, all destroying Pow'r, Hurried the infant to his mortal hour. Could'st thou unpitying close those radiant eyes? Or fail'd his artless beauties to surprize? Could not his innocence thy stroke controul, Thy purpose shake, and soften all thy soul? The blooming babe, with shades of Death o'erspread, No more shall smile, no more shall raise its head; But like a branch that from the tree is torn, Falls prostrate, wither'd, languid, and forlorn. «Where flies my James» 'tis thus I seem to hear The parent ask, «Some angel tell me where He whings his passage thro' the yielding air»? Methinks a cherub bending from the skies Observes the question and serene replies, «In heav'n's high palaces your babe appears: Prepare to meet him, and dismiss your tears». Shall not th' intelligence your grief restrain, And turn the mournful to the chearful strain? Cease your complaints, suspend each rising sigh, Cease to accuse the Ruler of the sky. Parents, no more indulge the falling tear: Let Faith to heav'n's refulgent domes repair, There see your infant like a seraph glow: What charms celestial in his numbers flow Melodious, while the soul-enchanting strain Dwells on his tongue, and fills th' etherial plain? Enough—forever cease your murm'ring breath; Not as a foe, but friend, converse with Death, Since to the port of happiness unknown He brought that treasure which you call your own. The gift of heav'n intrusted to your hand Chearful resign at the divine command; Not at your bar must sov'reign Wisdem stand.