But oh, my beauteous one!
This gloomy path should not by thee be trod;
The grave, the worm, should not by thee be known—
Go thou direct to God!
Thy passport white at Heaven’s gate unroll,
(No dark hand-writing e’er hath soiled that scroll.)
’Twas thus the Saviour spoke:
‘Those little children; suffer them to come.’
The mandate thou didst hear; the fetters broke
Which kept thee from thy home: