And yet it seems so hard to part—,
To part with those we love so dearly,
That, though the keenness of the smart
Is gone through Jesus' death most clearly,
We cannot help but mourn and weep
At losing for a time such treasure.
But we'll, rejoice that those who sleep
In Christ, shall, in unbounded measure,
Enjoy true happiness and peace
In yon fair World, where pain not tears.
Are either felt or seen; where cease
All sorrow and perplexing fears,
TO MRS. H. BATTSON.
1847.
To you, dear sister, I would now address
A rude production of my rhyming brain;
And if it does increase your happiness,
Of this intrusion you will not complain.
Margaret, nine years have nearly rolled away,
Since I first met on at your father's place.
Well I remember, to the very day,
My first glad glimpse of your young smiling face.
More, I remember for, almost forlorn,
I was received well 'neath that friendly roof,
And such pure kindness unto me was shown
As put my gratitude to strongest proof.
May I not hope that our dear Saviour took
As done to him what then was done for me?
If so, your names are written in his book,
As an assembled universe may see.
'Tis now, when one not only dear to me,
But to you all, has reached the World of Bliss,
That I am led more clearly still to see
The grandeur which in our Religion is.