Book 2 — EPITAPH ON AN INFANT[417:1]
Reading edition
EPITAPH ON AN INFANT[417:1]
Its balmy lips the infant blest Relaxing from its Mother's breast, How sweet it heaves the happy sigh Of innocent satiety! And such my Infant's latest sigh! 5 Oh tell, rude stone! the passer by, That here the pretty babe doth lie, Death sang to sleep with Lullaby.
1811.
FOOTNOTES:
LINENOTES:
[
1
]
balmy] milky Courier, 1811.
[
5
]
Infant's] darling's Courier, 1811.
[
6
]
Tell simple stone Courier, 1811.
[
7
]
the] a Courier, 1811.