Select poems / by L.H. Sigourney [electronic resource]

BAPTISM OF THE FIRST BORN

"Come dearest, come, the Sabbath-bell Hath almost rung its closing knell; Give me our babe, and haste away, With gladness on its christening day." Yet still the youthful mother prest Her first-born darling to her breast, And, careful o'er the grassy way, That 'tween the church and cottage lay, The precious burden chose to take, Scarce breathing, lest its sleep should break. —And those were near, who well might say How late, the gayest of the gay, Her footstep in the dance was light, Her eye, in mirthful revels bright, And she, the fairest of the fair, Elate with joy, and free from care. But now, while holier thoughts prevail, Her chasten'd beauty, lily-pale, The fervor of the prayer that stole In new devotion from her soul,

Gave higher charms to brow and cheek, Such as an angel's love might speak. Close in her steps, an aged pair, With furrow'd face, and silver hair, Press toward the font, intent to see The honor done to infancy. Oh, Grandsire! short the season seems, An April day of showers and beams, Since she, who totters by thy side, Blush'd in her loveliness, a bride, Since here, with hope's bright visions fraught Thy consecrated babes were brought. —The rite is o'er, the blessing said, The first-born finds his cradle-bed; Young Mother! prompt must be thy part To pour instruction o'er his heart; For scarce upon our infant eyes The sprinkled dew of baptism dries, Ere the thick frost of manhood's care, And strong Death's icy seal are there.