Then, maiden, do not cling to earth,
Whose hopes are of so little worth,
But now in youth thy heart be given,
In childlike confidence, to heav'n;
Then hope within your breast shall rise,
Ever to bloom in paradise;
And you, an angel bright, shall stand,
To sing and shine at God's right hand.
Maiden, this is my prayer for thee--
Far reaching to eternity;
And when, like mine, your setting sun
Proclaims life's journey almost run,
O, may his last--his sinking ray,
Beam on a brighter, happier day.
Forgive, dear maid, my truthful strain--
Say not, such reas'ning is in vain;
Say not that age is ever blind,
And disappointment sours the mind;
But, oh! the voice of warning heed--
And quickly to the Saviour speed;
For Jesus tells you "there is room,"
And to the weary soul says, "Come;"
Then lean your head upon his breast.
And you shall have the promised rest.
When you shall touch your gifted lyre,
Glowing with sweet, seraphic fire,
O then, remember me again,
And wake for me one pleasing strain.
Lines, Written in an Album.
"Then Jesus said unto her, Mary."
"Mary," the ris'n Saviour said,
In accents sweet and low;
"Mary:" she rais'd her drooping head,
The form she sought to know.
Mary had lingered by the cross,
To see her Saviour die;
Had seen him wrapp'd in linen fine,
In Joseph's tomb to lie.
Now she had come at early dawn,
Laden with rich perfume,
To shed her tears beside his form--
Her fragrance round his tomb.
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