For her youth was cloudless as the morn, and bright as noonday sky.
But ah! how soon the light is quenched that shone so sweetly here—
And oh! if love to God was hers, it glows in a brighter sphere!
That strange, mysterious spark of mind, shrined in the frailest clay,
Now flames amid the seraph band in a "house" that will not decay.
This world we know is full of tombs, covered with fairest flowers;
But yet how soon we all forget, and think them rosy bowers!
We build our hopes of pleasure here, select a fairy spot;
But Death soon proves to our pierced souls that he has not forgot!
Oh! wisely, wisely let us learn that this earth is not our home;