Why vainly, with fond eyes that never tire,
Watch we this infant? She has guardians higher
In office, mightier in power than we;
That life, that seems so fragile, has the powers
Of infinite reason, and the hours
And years and cycles of eternity!
Why, fearful, do we hear her troubled cries,
And mark each change with sweet or sad surmise?
Nature her mother is, and Heaven her sire.
Life seems to fade from paling cheek and eyes—
Fear not—yea, though from lip and heart it flies,
It is a spark of that immortal fire,
That paints the flowers and feeds the flaming skies—
The pure celestial fire, that never dies.