The New-Born Infant

Whether beneath sweet beds of roses, As foolish little Ann supposes, The spirit of a babe reposes Before it to the body come; Or, as philosophy more wise Thinks, it descendeth from the skies,- We know the babe's now in the room And that is all which is quite clear Even to philosophy, my dear. The God that made us can alone Reveal from whence a spirit's brought Into young life, to light, and thought; And this the wisest man must own. We'll now talk of the babe's surprise, When first he opens his new eyes, And first receives delicious food. Before the age of six or seven, To mortal children is not given Much reason; or I think he would (And very naturally) wonder What happy star he was born under, That he should be the only care Of the dear sweet-food-giving lady, Who fondly calls him her own baby, Her darling hope, her infant heir.