On My Dear Grandchild, Simon Bradstreet, Who Died on 16 November, 1669, Being but a Month, and One Day Old. Ė Anne Bradstreet (1678)

No sooner came, but gone, and fallín asleep,

Acquaintance short, yet parting caused us weep;

Three flowers, two scarcely blown, the last Ií thí bud,

Cropt by thí Almightyís hand; yet is He good.

With dreadful awe before Him letís be mute,

Such was His will, buy why, letís not dispute,

With humble hearts and moths put in the dust,

Letís say Heís merciful as well as just.

He will return and make up all our losses,

And smile again after our bitter crosses

Go pretty babe, go rest with sisters twain;

Among the blest in endless joys remain.

 

 

 

 

 

On My Dear Grandchild, Simon Bradstreet, Who Died on 16 November, 1669, Being but a Month, and One Day Old. Ė Anne Bradstreet (1678)

No sooner came, but gone, and fallín asleep,

Acquaintance short, yet parting caused us weep;

Three flowers, two scarcely blown, the last Ií thí bud,

Cropt by thí Almightyís hand; yet is He good.

With dreadful awe before Him letís be mute,

Such was His will, buy why, letís not dispute,

With humble hearts and moths put in the dust,

Letís say Heís merciful as well as just.

He will return and make up all our losses,

And smile again after our bitter crosses

Go pretty babe, go rest with sisters twain;

Among the blest in endless joys remain.