Epitaph On An Infant - 2 - By Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Its balmy lips the infant blest
  Relaxing from its mother's breast,
  How sweet it heaves the happy sigh
  Of innocent satiety!

  And such my infant's latest sigh!
  Oh tell, rude stone! the passer by,
  That here the pretty babe doth lie,
  Death sang to sleep with Lullaby.

1799.