MEMORY OF MARY.
on, dearest, take thy rest,
Address thy dreamless bed,
Thou art surely now more blest,
Then any worldly head.
Thou wast simple in thy day,
Quiet in thy death,
And ere enur'd to childish play,
Yet now in ceasing breath.
"Suffer children unto me,"
Is what our Saviour said;
Oh! how delightful that must be,
How blest the early dead!
Ere sin might wound thy tender breast,
Or sorrow cause a tear,
Rise to thy home of sacred rest,
In you celestial sphere.
Thy daughter kneels before the throne;
Ah, mother shed no tear,
Give up, nor do in sorrow mourn,
Remember God is near.
Parents ne'er wish thy Mary hence,
She was as only lent,
wish her back from thence,
Strive to be confident.
When the arc-angel's trump shall blow,
And souls to bodies join,
Millions will wish their lives below,
Had been as short as thine!