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Too deep such calm for that sweet rest. 
Which he was wont to know, 
When on thy fond maternal breast 
His cheek and brow were closely prest, 
Not motionless as now, 
But varying with each winged dream 
That on his infant mind did beam. 
Now must his cradle be the tomb, 
His pillow earth supply; 
Yet weep not, for since such our doom, 
Seems it not sweet in life’s first bloom 
To bow the head and die, 
Ere scarce the hidden worm hath power 
To mar one folding of the flower ? 
Each year we heave a deeper sigh, 
Our hopes are more o’ercast; 
And had this shaft flown harmless by, 
Think’st thou, that calm as infancy, 
Youth, manhood, age had pass’d ? 
Or soft had been as thy fond breast 
The pillow of his future rest? 
