B. B. Y. Obt. Aug., 1852

Oh! deep is our sorrow, Anguish and woe, No more to behold thee, Loved one, below; All the rich promise Thy sweet childhood gave, Blighted for ever. Cut short by the grave! Well may we weep for thee, Child of our love, Thy spirit all gentle And meek as the dove; Well may we mourn for thee, Child of our hopes,— Each fond expectation A blighted flower droops! The dear thoughts we cherished Of future for thee, Like unripe fruit perished And fall’n from the tree. At night and in day-dreams We hear thy sweet voice, But at the known music We weep—not rejoice! We yearn to behold thee, We call as before; The walls of the charnel But echo “no more!” No more shall we see thee— No more on this earth— E’en we who have loved thee Each hour since thy birth. Oh! whence can a balm for Our deep wounds be given? This world cannot yield such, It must come from heaven! Then let us look upward In hope and in prayer, That we may behold thee In bright dwellings there. How pure the last moments Assigned thee below, Whilst sweet thoughts within thee Alone seemed to flow; And love high and holy Glowed warm in thy breast, To prove thee preparing For heaven’s calm rest. God’s words of rich promise Upheld thy young heart, And made thee in peace and In gladness depart; And gives full assurance, Thy last breath on earth, Was but passing to heaven And death was thy birth! By faith we behold thee An angel of light, All radiant with glory, In holiness bright, Thy sweet young voice singing With seraphs above, Some anthem of gladness Some pure song of love, For ever rejoicing In that high abode In Him, Thy Creator, Redeemer and God. This thought will shine on us With life-giving ray, And be our rich solace Through time’s dreary way. Our keen sorrows softened, Our anguish forgot, In viewing the glory And peace of thy lot; And thy dear memory be As a clear beacon given, To win our hearts onward To join thee in heaven.