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is that trembling of a father's hand, Who to the man of God doth bring his babe, Asking the seal of Christ?—Why doth the voice That uttereth o'er its brow the Triune Name Falter with sympathy?—And most of all, Why is yon coffin-lid a pedestal For the baptismal font? Again I asked. But all the answer was those gushing tears Which stricken hearts do weep. For there she lay— The fair, young mother, in that coffin-bed, Mourned by the funeral train. The heart that beat With trembling tenderness, at every touch Of love or pity, flushed the cheek no more. Tears were thy baptism, thou unconscious one, And Sorrow took thee at the gate of life, Into her cradle. Thou may'st never know The welcome of a nursing mother's kiss, When in her wandering ecstacy, she marks A thrilling growth of new affections spread Fresh greenness o'er the soul. Thou may'st not share Her hallowed teaching, nor suffuse her eye With joy, as the first germs of infant thought Unfold, in lisping sound.