ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY.
85
To us are still no more?
Who, ere the dawn of life be o'er,
Its first bright dream of love and truth
Have blighted yet in early youth?
Who, ere the dawn of life be o'er,
Its first bright dream of love and truth
Have blighted yet in early youth?
Ah, no! a sharper pain
Then pierces through the heart,
In which, although, indeed, 't were vain
To say self bears no part,—
Yes! wounded pride may aid the smart,—
Yet surely angels, too, might weep
O'er earth's poor wayward, wandering sheep.
Then pierces through the heart,
In which, although, indeed, 't were vain
To say self bears no part,—
Yes! wounded pride may aid the smart,—
Yet surely angels, too, might weep
O'er earth's poor wayward, wandering sheep.
Perhaps 't was thus she mourned
The falsehood of one so dear;
But her wounded soul returned
To God, and one only tear
She shed o'er earth's fleeting visions here,
While his folly and sin formed the fatal dart,
The death-pang which pierced her gentle heart.
The falsehood of one so dear;
But her wounded soul returned
To God, and one only tear
She shed o'er earth's fleeting visions here,
While his folly and sin formed the fatal dart,
The death-pang which pierced her gentle heart.
