Part 1 — TO AN INFANT IN THE CRADLE.
Reading edition
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BY REV. GEORGE B. CHEEVER.
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Thou lovely miniature of Nature’s painting!
Thy beauty mingles care with my delight.
These colors are to grow: not like the fainting,
Soft, dying hues, that mark the eve’s twilight—
But evermore renewed, as if the dawn,
With its deep rosy tinge, instead of fading,
Ran hand in hand with the bright dewy morn,
The sky by sunlight with all colors shading.
These colors are to grow, from where, an infant,
Thou sleepest cradled by thy mother’s side,
On through thy childhood’s beauty, every instant,
To maiden loveliness—thy mother’s pride.
And she will guide the pencil, hers the art
To deepen Nature’s lineaments, or alter:
To image Heaven or Earth upon the heart—
What if her love should err, her pencil falter!
O! ’tis a sacred, sweet and fearful duty
To train these earth-born spirits for the skies!
To keep this household flower green in its beauty,
Till it in Paradise transplanted rise.
May He, who took the nurslings in his arms,
Keep thee and thine, his richest grace revealing,
Hid, as his Pilgrims, from the world’s alarms,
Where quiet brooks in pastures green are stealing!