Poems.
29
Art thou not cold, my little maid,
And why this falling tear?
With half-choked voice, she sweetly said,
"My Mother's buried here!"
Sweet Girl! this tribute of thy love,
Due to thy parent's worth,
Is registered in realms above,
Far from this grovelling earth.
And why this falling tear?
With half-choked voice, she sweetly said,
"My Mother's buried here!"
Sweet Girl! this tribute of thy love,
Due to thy parent's worth,
Is registered in realms above,
Far from this grovelling earth.
Although thy Mother sleeps in death,
Beneath the earth's cold sod,
Yet, with her last expiring breath,
Her spirit rose to God.
And when, dear child, thy life is o'er,
May thy pure spirit meet
Thy sainted Mother, on that shore,
Where souls congenial beat.
Beneath the earth's cold sod,
Yet, with her last expiring breath,
Her spirit rose to God.
And when, dear child, thy life is o'er,
May thy pure spirit meet
Thy sainted Mother, on that shore,
Where souls congenial beat.
TO A LADY.
Thou askest me but yesternight
A little Poem to indite,
A keepsake thus to be;
That thou may'st look in after years,
Upon the shrine that friendship rears;
To memory and to thee.
A little Poem to indite,
A keepsake thus to be;
That thou may'st look in after years,
Upon the shrine that friendship rears;
To memory and to thee.
