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LORENCE, sweet Florence! sainted, suffering child,Our grievous loss is thy eternal gain;
Thy little life was one long day of pain;
But, by earth's lightest shadow undefiled,
Baptismal drops still bright upon thy brow,
Thy rest is won. From sin and sorrow free,
We know that thou art safe for ever now;
And weep, but for ourselves and not for thee.
We miss thy sunny smiles and winning ways,
The thousand charms that made thee more than dear;
But though this cloud must shadow all our days,
We would not if we could recall thee here;
And only pray, when our last hour is come,
Where all are such as thou, we too may find our home.
E.
January 30, 1853,
