146
MONODY TO MRS. SARAH L. SMITH.
Of heathen babes, who on thine accents hang
As on a mother's; for the time is short.
Perils upon the waters wait for thee,
And then another Jordan, from whose flood
Is no return.
But thou, with lip so pale,
Didst take the song of triumph, and go down
Alone and fearless through its depths profound.
Snatches of heavenly harpings made thee glad,
Even to thy latest gasp.
Therefore the grief
Born at thy grave is not like other grief.
Tears mix with joy. We praise our God for thee.
