Without a tear! Yet He, who wills the wound,
Can shed such balm-drops o'er the riven heart,
That its most poignant and deep-rooted grief
Shall bear blest fruit in Heaven.
FILIAL GRIEF.
The love that blest our infant dream,
That dried our earliest tear,
The tender voice, the winning smile
That made our home so dear,
The hand that urged our youthful thought
O'er low delights to soar,
Whose pencil wrote upon our souls,
Alas! is ours no more.
Go, lay the Bible that she lov'd,
Upon her coffin lid,
Its spirit like a precious balm
Deep in her breast was hid,
And daily o'er its page she bent
With calm and saintly brow,
It was her chosen friend through life:
Take it not from her now.
Bring forth, bring forth the plants she rear'd
To the freest sun and air,
And daily o'er their welfare watch
With all a florist's care,—
