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No more with us, his tuneful voice
The hymn of praise shall swell,
No more his cheerful heart rejoice
To hear the Sabbath-bell.
Yet if in yon unclouded sphere,
Amid a blessed throng,
He warbles to his Saviour's ear
The everlasting song,—
No more we'll mourn our buried friend,
But lift the ardent prayer,
And every wish and effort bend
To rise and join him there.
On a Child of two and a half years old, who wiped the tears of his Father with his dying hand.
Pale was the little polish'd brow
That lately bloomed so fair,
