Has Love ne’er shed his fitful gleam
  Across thy path—­then hid his beam? 
  Hast thou ne’er felt the solemn truth—­
  That palsied age must steal o’er youth;
  And that the auburn tresses gay
  Must soon be chang’d for mournful gray? 
  Has sickness never pal’d the rose,
  That on the cheek of beauty glows,
  And ghastly death, with funeral gloom,
  Oft call’d the lovely to the tomb? 
  Ah, maiden, yes, that tell-tale sigh,
  The downcast glances of thine eye,
  Say that thy heart is but the tomb
  Of hopes that wither’d in their bloom;—­
  Say that, where all things else decay,
  Thy fragile form must pass away. 
  Then why so fondly cling to earth,
  Whose joys are of so little worth? 
  But rather raise your thoughts on high,
  Where Hope’s fair promises ne’er die,
  Where ghastly death holds no domain,
  But endless youth and beauty reign.

To Mrs. B——­, On the Death of a Son.

  How frail are all the things of earth,
    How subject to decay;
  Scarce they receive their fragile birth
    Ere they are swept away.

  And tyrant death, with icy hand,
    Is ever lurking near,
  And binding in his frozen band,
    The forms to us most dear.

  But do not mourn the early dead,
    Whose thread of life is riven;
  ’Tis Jesus calls them from the earth,
    To be with Him in heaven.

  Spotless and pure they pass from earth,
    And Jesus bids them come;
  And glorious is their heavenly birth
    In their eternal home.

  No more you’ll hear the plaintive voice;—­
    “Mother, dear mother, where?”
  Your child shall with his God rejoice
    In full fruition there.

  No more shall burning fever rage,
    No more shall pain oppress,
  But angel strains his tongue engage
    In hymns of righteousness.

  And when life’s ebbing sands shall fail,
    And pallid death shall come,
  May you then look within the vail,
    To that eternal home.

  And then, perhaps, your gentle child,
    So soon from sin set free,
  May be the first of angel bands,
    Brightly to welcome thee.

  So do not mourn the early dead,
    So sinless and so fair,
  But be prepared to join their bliss,
    Thus is the stranger’s prayer.

O Come Back, My Brother.

  My brother, O, come back to play,
  For all the flow’rs are springing gay,
  And all the birds sing on the spray;
          So, come back, my brother.

  ’Twas winter when you hung your head,
  And lay so pale upon your bed,
  And mother told me you were dead,
          My poor little brother.

  Then the birds all went away,
  And all the leaves fell from the spray,
  And all the streams forgot to play,
          Just like you, my brother.