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And mingling there, there seems a tinge
 Of gentle sadness too;—
Not sorrow, but some thought that comes
 To soften and subdue,

Thy pensive eyes seem watching, where
 Thy happy children play;
While blending with thy thoughts of them,
 Come hours long past away.

The loved, the lost, the holy dead
 Are swiftly passing by,
And blending with the fairy forms
 That glad thy loving eye.

I like to look upon that face
 It ever seems to me
An image of what woman's heart
 And woman's life should be:—

A loving spirit, lowly mind,
 A gentle heart and fair,
So filled with home, the world can find
 No room to enter there.

And such tradition says wert thou:
 To all around thee dear;
Thy pious life and bounteous hand
 Are still remembered here.

But soon, alas! thy race was run;
 Scarce ten short years had fled
Of thy calm wedded life, when thou
 Wert numbered with the dead.