Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER, E. C. M., by DAVID MACBETH MOIR

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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER, E. C. M., by                 Poet's Biography
First Line: There is no sound upon the night
Last Line: Be all my soul desires to see!
Alternate Author Name(s): Delta
Subject(s): Babies; Child Care; Fathers & Daughters; Gentility; Infants; Baby Sitters; Governesses


THERE is no sound upon the night,
As by the shaded lamp I trace,
My babe, in smiling beauty bright,
The changes of thy sleeping face.


Hallow'd to us shall be the hour,
Yea, sacred through all time to come,
Which gave us thee, a living flower,
To bless and beautify our home.


Thy presence is a charm, which wakes
A new creation to my sight;
Gives life another hue, and makes
The wither'd green, the faded bright.


Pure as a lily of the brook,
Heaven's signet on thy forehead lies,
And Heaven is read in every look,
My Daughter, of thy soft blue eyes!


In sleep thy gentle spirit seems
To some bright realm to wander back;
And seraphs, mingling with thy dreams,
Allure thee to their shining track.


Already, like a vernal flower,
I see thee opening to the light,
And day by day, and hour by hour,
Becoming more divinely bright.


Yet in my gladness stirs a sigh,
Even for the blessing of thy birth,
Knowing how sins and sorrows try
Mankind, and darken o'er the earth.


Ah! little dost thou ween, my child,
The dangers of the way before;
How rocks in every path are piled,
Which few, unharm'd, can clamber o'er.


Sweet bud of beauty! how wilt thou
Endure the bitter tempest's strife?
Shall thy blue eyes be dimm'd, thy brow
Indented by the cares of life?


If years are destined thine, alas!
It may be—ah! it must be so:
For all that live and breathe, the glass
Which must be quaff'd, is drugg'd with woe.


Yet, could a Father's prayers avail,
So calm thy skies of life should be,
That thou should'st glide beneath the sail
Of virtue, on a stormless sea:


And ever on thy thoughts, my child,
This sacred truth should be impress'd—
Grief clouds the soul to sin beguil'd;
Who liveth best, God loveth best:


Across thy path Religion's star
Should ever shed its healing ray,
To lead thee from this world's vain jar,
To scenes of peace and purer day.


Shun Vice—the breath of her abode
Is poison'd, though with roses strewn—
And cling to Virtue; though the road
Be thorny, boldly travel on.


Yes; travel on—nor turn thee round,
Though dark the way and deep the shade;
Till on that shore thy feet be found,
Where bloom the palms that never fade.


For thee I ask not riches—thou
Wert wealthy with a spotless name;
I ask not beauty—for thy brow
Is fair as Fancy's wish could claim.


Be thine a spirit loathing guilt,
To duty wed, from malice free;
Be like thy Mother—and thou wilt
Be all my soul desires to see!

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