In Memoriam Puellulæ Dulcissimæ. - D. P. W

Ah! what is left for love to prize? A little dress or trinket toy Which once could make the innocent eyes Brighten with glimpses of the joy The woman feels in being fair — A chair left sadly in its place — A little tress of chestnut hair — A little likeness of her face, Ah! vacant of the living light Which magic sunbeam never gave — And, on our city's northern height, Across a thousand streets — a grave. No more, no more. O fruitless pain Of birth and nurture, wasted years Of care, and watches watched in vain! O idle hopes! O idle fears!

'Tis well to tell us she is blest, That never sin or grief shall break The quiet of her perfect rest. O God, but is it well to make These desolate homes, that round thy throne Haply may stand in denser throng The children-angels? Must the tone Of these pure voices swell the song That hymns thee Lord of all, and leave These dreadful gaps of silence here?

O Lord, forgive us if we grieve Too wildly, if the starting tear Confuse our vision; make us see What steadfast, changeless purpose runs Through all thy ways, to bring to thee, Or soon or late, thy wandering sons. Content if slow they come, for sake Of those they love, and loath to part From what thou givest, thou dost take The treasure lest thou lose the heart.