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.
