Epitaph for an Infant

Sweet bud of life, God knew this earth,
Was not a home for thee;
He took thee, even from thy birth,
To bless Eternity.

The Millennium

The promis’d years, the better times,
By God himself foretold,
Have dawn’d, and banish’d hateful crimes,
The latest age of gold.

Not now a brother fears to tread
The way a brother goes,
Not now the wife’s sad heart is fed,
On brutal cuffs and blows.

Not now the human eye is fierce
With cruel thirst of gore;
Not now the angry spear doth pierce
The bosom. Such are o’er.

This scene become a Paradise,
A scene of peace and love,
Wherein each living being tries
To work for God above.

The Bible fills the mighty world,
The end is drawing nigh,
When, earth in burning fragments hurl’d,
The soul shall rise on high.

The promis’d years, the better times,
By God himself foretold,
Have dawned with their triumphal chimes,
On the sweet air unroll’d.