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LINES ON THE DEATH OF A BELOVED NIECE,
WHO DIED, FEBRUARY 1825, AGED 18.
1
WE yield our treasure to the dust!A lovely blossom, torn away!
Lord, we would own thee kind and just,
Thou art the potter! we are clay!
2
Yet nature, still, but half resign'd,Speaks through the burning tears that start;
How hard to rend the cords that bind,
And to the loved-one, say, “Depart!”
3
To mark her thrice six years unfold,With hopes, so soon to take their flight!
Her intellect, of amplest mould,
Just opening, to expire in night!
4
Her voice, mellifluous as the lyre;The wit that charmed, or grave, or gay;
The smile benign; the eye of fire;
Pass'd, like the summer cloud, away!
5
Yet not so pass, her zeal and love,These boast their amaranthine dyes:
The feeblest faith hath links above,
That draw the spirit to the skies.
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6
What is our mind's procession, strange!Disrobed of flesh, renew'd, refined!
Thought shudders at its trackless range,
That suns and systems leaves behind!
7
O, hear, ye young! her tenderest careWas, just retiring from the earth,
That you might for that hour prepare,
When all, but Christ, is nothing worth.
8
Farewell, bless'd spirit! hope sedateLooks on, while tears bedew our eye,
To meet thee in that happier state,
For which we live, and dare to die.
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