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No more thy little foot's elastic tread Shall from the green grass brush the morning dew,Nor bounding o'er the pavement's level bed, With wild delight the flying ball pursue.
No more those sparkling eyes of loveliest blue, Through which thy guiltless soul would almost speak,Shall beam with rapture, nor the blushing hue Of rosy health adorn thy dimpled cheek.
Pale, pale that cheek, and languid is that eye, And quick, yet faint, th' unequal pulses play;Oft from thy little bosom bursts the sigh, And life itself is ebbing fast away.
Yet thou shalt bloom when ev'ry flow'r shall fade— Thy God, thy heav'nly Father calls thee home,Commission'd angels hover o'er thy bed, Whisp'ring in accents soft, "Sweet cherub, come!
Come to the land of everlasting rest, Where grief no more shall sighs of anguish raise,And mingle with the millions of the blest Circling Jehovah's throne with songs of praise.
Come to the bosom of thy Saviour, come; To peace eternal and a bliss divine;Come to the glorious, everlasting home, Purchas'd by his dear blood, for spirits pure as thine!"
