On An Infant Dying As Soon As Born Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis

Rhyme Scheme: AABCDDEEFGHHIIIJJKLM MNNOOOPHPHPQQRSTTUUV WHHHHHHHHHHHHXXHHHYZ PPH

I saw where in the shroud did lurkA
A curious frame of Nature's workA
A floweret crush'd in the budB
A nameless piece of BabyhoodC
Was in her cradle coffin lyingD
Extinct with scarce the sense of dyingD
So soon to exchange the imprisoning wombE
For darker closets of the tombE
She did but ope an eye and putF
A clear beam forth then straight up shutG
For the long dark ne'er more to seeH
Through glasses of mortalityH
Riddle of destiny who can showI
What thy short visit meant or knowI
What thy errand here belowI
Shall we say that Nature blindJ
Check'd her hand and changed her mindJ
Just when she had exactly wroughtK
A finish'd pattern without faultL
Could she flag or could she tireM
Or lack'd she the Promethean fireM
With her nine moons' long workings sicken'dN
That should thy little limbs have quicken'dN
Limbs so firm they seem'd to assureO
Life of health and days matureO
Woman's self in miniatureO
Limbs so fair they might supplyP
Themselves now but cold imageryH
The sculptor to make Beauty byP
Or did the stern eyed Fate descryH
That babe or mother one must dieP
So in mercy left the stockQ
And cut the branch to save the shockQ
Of young years widow'd and the painR
When single state comes back againS
To the lone man who reft of wifeT
Thenceforward drags a maim egrave d lifeT
The economy of Heaven is darkU
And wisest clerks have miss'd the markU
Why human buds like this should fallV
More brief than fly ephemeralW
That has his day while shrivell'd cronesH
Stiffen with age to stocks and stonesH
And crabb egrave d use the conscience searsH
In sinners of an hundred yearsH
Mother's prattle mother's kissH
Baby fond thou ne'er wilt missH
Rites which custom does imposeH
Silver bells and baby clothesH
Coral redder than those lipsH
Which pale death did late eclipseH
Music framed for infants' gleeH
Whistle never tuned for theeH
Though thou want'st not thou shalt have themX
Loving hearts were they which gave themX
Let not one be missing nurseH
See them laid upon the hearseH
Of infant slain by doom perverseH
Why should kings and nobles haveY
Pictured trophies to their graveZ
And we churls to thee denyP
Thy pretty toys with thee to lieP
A more harmless vanityH

Charles Lamb



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