Fordham, Mary Weston
|THE GRAFTED BUD.|
Life's stormy surge had scarcely touched
Her blooming, beauteous brow,
When rudely torn from earthly bliss,
A budded, broken flower.
Methinks I see her brilliant eye,
When smiles played softly there,
As gentle as the summer's breeze,
So radiant, sweet and clear.
But ah! frail nature gave away,
And she was doomed to die,
So young in years, so bright, so fair,
In the cold grave to lie.
So to the realms of light and life
Her uncaged spirit fled;
There to remain until the trump
Shall sound to wake the dead.
There with the Saviour she abides,
There tunes the sacred lyre,
Regardless of th' impending day,
And dreading not its ire.