Yet do not mourn that she from earth
Thus early passed away;
A pitying Saviour call'd her hence,
To realms of endless day.
And she is free from earth-born cares,
Which we must still endure;
Her little dream of life is o'er,
Her crown of glory sure.
Though icy death, like winter's shroud,
Surrounds the mould'ring tomb,
Upon the resurrection morn
Eternal spring shall bloom.
Mother of angels, softly tread,
Perchance to thee 'tis given,
To hold communings with the dead,
Who live and reign in heaven.
And as thy treasures there are laid,
There thy warm hopes will rise;
Thou hast an added golden link
To draw thee to the skies.
Thy mission is a holy one:
Thy honor'd husband stands
A watchman upon Zion's walls,
Its standard in his hands.
'Tis thine to aid the glorious work,
Thy ransom'd soul may tell
The wonders of a Saviour's love,
Who "doeth all things well."
Press onward in thy heav'nly task,
And drink in full supplies
From free Salvation's living springs,
That in the gospel rise.
God speed thee, sister, on thy way;
May many souls be giv'n
In answer to thy fervent prayers,
To form thy crown in heav'n.
Lines, To Mrs. S----, On the Death of Her Son, Who Died March, 1854.
Smooth gently back the silken hair,
From off the death-damp brow;
Life's feeble struggles all are o'er,--
Free is that spirit now.
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