Epitaph

He lived, he played, a little laughing sprite: Why, Nature, didst thou snatch him from the light? Hast thou not myriad birds within thy bowers? Stars, and great woods, blue skies, and ocean wild? Why, then, from his lone mother snatch the child, And hid him underneath the bed of flowers? This one child more cannot enlarge thy reign, Star-spangled Nature; thou no joy dost gain. The Mother's heart so many cares oppress— That heart whose joys do equal pangs create— Abyss, as thou, O Nature! deep and great, Is empty made and void, by this child less.