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But she, the darling, will not come.—
Your sweetest one is dead.
Ye know that blest Redeemer's name
Who gaz'd on childhood's charms,
Indulgent heard its gentle claim,
And clasp'd it in his arms;
To him, your sister babe hath gone,
Her pains, her tears are o'er,
Safe, near her Heavenly Father's throne,
She bows to death no more.
Funeral Hymn for a Sunday School Scholar.
As crushed by sudden storms the rose
Sinks on the garden's breast,
Down to the grave our brother goes
In earth's cold arms to rest.
