Little bosom not yet cold,
Noble forehead made for thought,
Little hands of mighty mould
Clenched as in the fight which they had fought.
He had done battle to be born,
But some brute force of Nature had prevailed
And the little warrior failed.
Whate’er thou wert, whate’er thou art,
Whose life was ended ere thy breath begun,
Thou nine-months neighbour of my dear one’s heart,
And howsoe’er thou liest blind and mute,
Thou lookest bold and resolute,
God bless thee dearest son.