Classic Poem

O vain expenditure! unhallowed waste!
Thus to bestow on the swathed infant heir
Full flowing robes, too large for him to wear! —
On his frail head, as if in mockery, placed
That crown with which the ample brows are graced
Of saints who, proud their Saviour's cross to bear,
His blessed steps pursue with ceaseless care,
Through arduous ways to do His bidding haste!
Why should we give to the close-folded rose
Those glowing tints that glad the gazer's eye?
Soon shall it brightly blossom where it grows;
Or, if at once transported to the sky,
Such colours in that temperature disclose
As here e'en light from heaven could ne'er supply.

The Infant soul is as a frozen lake,
O'er which Heav'n smiles and playful breezes stray;
It cannot smile as yet, nor lightly play,
Nor of the skies one soft bright image take.
But soon the slumbering waters are awake,
Released from durance by the kindly ray;
Then see it laugh beneath the eye of Day!
Its lapsing bosom every breath can shake,
Unconsciousness, our spirits' primal frost,
Yields, " sure as day to night", to Pow'r supreme:
How unlike that which not the fervid beam
Of Love can melt, in souls for ever lost! —
Amid that genial warmth self-frozen — grown
No transient ice but undissolving stone!