What once was clay, suff'ring, distress'd,
Subject to pain and ire,--
A happy spirit, with the bless'd,
Now tunes a seraph's lyre.
One little lock of silken hair
Is all that's to thee given;--
The rest lies buried deep in earth,--
The soul with God in heaven.
The night winds sigh around her grave,
The night dews there descend;
And there the tears of anguish lave
Thy pallid cheeks, my friend.
But, oh! forbear, nor let thy tears,
Drop on this mould'ring sod;--
Reflect, 'tis dust that slumbers here,
The spirit's with its God.
For ere her fragile life had closed,
What blissful hopes were given;--
Those parted lips and beaming eyes
Spake less of earth than heaven,
And soon thy dream of life will close,--
Its hopes and joys be o'er;
In death's cold arms thy limbs repose,--
Thy soul to glory soar.
And then, perhaps, this cherub form,
From sin so soon set free,
May, with a daughter's greeting warm,
Be first to welcome thee.
Perhaps, the joys on earth denied,
In full fruition given,
May more abundant be supplied,
For rip'ning thus, in heaven.
Perhaps, 'mid splendor spread around,
Which thou shalt see, and hear,
Mother, may be the sweetest sound
That strikes thy ravished ear.
Then do not mourn those early called
To yonder blissful sky,--
They drink full draughts of living bliss,
From founts that never dry.
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