Lines Sacred to the memory of David Allen Cawthorn

As my first post I thought it would be best to share a poem I found in my great grand uncle's genealogy research. It was his original documents and research that got me interested in genealogy, and now I have been researching  for over 8 years. I don't know if the document I have is original or if it had been recopied by my great grand uncle Uriel.

Transcribed by K. Stevens, 2011.
Lines sacred to the memory of David Allen Cawthorn infant son of John W Cawthorn and Cornelia E Cawthorn who was born Sept. the 7^th 1883 and died September the 14^th 1884.

“I have a son, a third sweet son; his age I cannot tell

For they reckon not by years and months; where he is gone to dwell.

To us for twelve anxious months his infant smiles were given;

And then he bid farewell to earth; and went to live in heaven.

I cannot tell what form is his, what looks he weareth now,

Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining seraph brow,

The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss which he doth feel,

Are membered with the secret things, which God will not reveal.

But I know for God hath told me this that he is now at rest

Where other blessed infants be, on their Savior’s loving breast;

I know his spirit feels no more this weary load of flesh

But his sleep is blessed with endless dreams of joy forever fresh.

I know the angels fold him close beneath their glittering wings,

And soothe him with a song that breathes of heaven’s divinest things

I know that we shall meet our babe (his loved ones here below)

Where God for aye shall wipe away all tears forever more.

What e’er befalls his brethern twain, his bliss can never cease;

Their lot may here be grief and fear; but his is certain peace.

It may be that the tempters wiles their souls from bliss may sever

But if our own poor faith fail not, he must be our’s forever.

When we think of what our darling is and what he still must be;

We muse on that world’s perfect bliss and this world’s misery

When we groan beneath this load of sin and feel this grief and pain,

O we’d rather live without him here than have him back again.”

-Cornelia E.  Cawthorn   June 7^th 1885

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