God gave this treasure for a time,
But, fathomless His will sublime,
Our flowret scarcely liv'd to know
His wondrous works on earth below.
God took our darling child away,—
Shall we not meekly bow, and say,
His will be done,—to us a loan,
The child is wholly now His own?—A.
Think not, beneath this grassy grave,
Our son is laid to rest;
The soul that Jesus died to save
Liveth among the blest.—A.
"Scarce had I flutter'd into life,
And joy to my dear parents given,
Than on my tender brow was placed,
A crown of righteousness in heaven."
Like tender plant in fair array,
She blossom'd here a little day,
But oh! sweet hope, 'twas but a dream,—
She pass'd away like flowing stream;
Yet angel-voices seem to cry,
From yonder bright and blissful sky,
And tell of consolation there,
Where all is lasting, bright, and fair."
