 | [Death of a young wife, in] The lily of the valley, for 1851 |  |
235
DEATH OF A YOUNG WIFE.
O sweet and radiant,—reft away,
As fleets the blossom from the spray,
When sudden tempests blow,—
We dreamed not of thine early blight,
Who bore the promise, warm and bright,
A longer span to know.
As fleets the blossom from the spray,
When sudden tempests blow,—
We dreamed not of thine early blight,
Who bore the promise, warm and bright,
A longer span to know.
We well remember what thou wert,
The fair of brow, the pure in heart,
The lily of our love;
And it becomes us now, to clear
The eye of faith from darkening tear,
And point its glance above.
The fair of brow, the pure in heart,
The lily of our love;
And it becomes us now, to clear
The eye of faith from darkening tear,
And point its glance above.
For there, methinks, we see thee stand,
Amid the white-robed seraph band,
A cherub by thy side,
Who breathed not here the wintry air,
But swiftly fled to show thee where
Thou shouldst in bliss abide.
Amid the white-robed seraph band,
A cherub by thy side,
Who breathed not here the wintry air,
But swiftly fled to show thee where
Thou shouldst in bliss abide.
236
Young wife,—young mother,—daughter dear,—
We name thee not without a tear,
Such as the soul may know
That mourned thine image lost to earth,
But, musing on thy heavenly birth,
Doth mingle praise with woe.
We name thee not without a tear,
Such as the soul may know
That mourned thine image lost to earth,
But, musing on thy heavenly birth,
Doth mingle praise with woe.
No pain is thine, nor weary care,
Nor burden such as we must bear,
Who, lingering, year by year,
Find frost around the forehead cling,
And fall like a forgotten thing,
With scarce one sorrowing tear.
Nor burden such as we must bear,
Who, lingering, year by year,
Find frost around the forehead cling,
And fall like a forgotten thing,
With scarce one sorrowing tear.
The hosts who watch us, lest we stray,—
The unseen guardians of our way,
Who do their Maker's will,—
Love they not those whom thus they shield?—
So, though thy form be unrevealed,
Thy ministry by clouds concealed,
Sweet angel!—love us still.
The unseen guardians of our way,
Who do their Maker's will,—
Love they not those whom thus they shield?—
So, though thy form be unrevealed,
Thy ministry by clouds concealed,
Sweet angel!—love us still.
| [Death of a young wife, in] The lily of the valley, for 1851 | |