Oh, who would check the starting tear,
Or who suppress the rising sigh,
When those we fondly cherished here,
In early youth are called to die?

Such was thy fate, my early friend,
Thus snatch’d away in beauty’s bloom;
No aid that earthly love might lend,
Could save thee, dear one, from the tomb.

I call to mind thy greetings warm,
Thy gentle smile, thy winning grace,
And weep that now thy fragile form,
Lies cold and still in Death’s embrace.

But though I miss thy winning smile,
And the sweet music of thy voice,
That could my weary heart beguile;
Yet I, amid my tears, rejoice,

That thou, thus early, didst depart:
When all around was fair and bright:
Ere yet thy fond, confiding heart
Had felt of earthly woe the blight.

For it is sweeter, far, to die
When the young heart with hope is fill’d,
Than live o’er ruined hopes, to sigh
When cold distrust that heart has chill’d.

Who would not rather pass away
From earth, like some sweet summer flow’r,
When the soft murmuring zephyrs play.
Than live till wintry tempests lower?

We trust thy sins have been forgiv’n;
Thy soul made pure from guilt’s dark stain;
And that a ransom’d soul in heav’n,
Thou’lt raise to God the angelic strain.

Then let no murmuring thought arise,
Though lonely oft my path may be,
And bitter tears oft dim my eyes,
Unbidden, at the thought of thee.

Still the sweet memory of thy love,
Has power to sooth my aching heart;
Even as crush’d and withered flow’rs,
A lasting fragrance oft impart.