MARY:
Reading edition
DIED MAY 30TH, 1860.
But one short hour She came and tripped it o'er the rugged earth, Like a light sunbeam o'er the troubled wave; Then shrank in silence to her little grave, A rose-bud bitten at its opening birth.
The hand of death Had ta'en before her one who loved her well With all the fondness of a Mother's heart, Whose darling's soul was made of Heav'n a part E're sank the echoes of her own death-knell.
And so she died: Before her mind scarce knew the way to live. But sorrowing tears 'twere useless now to shed: Our hopes must bloom, or mingle with the dead, As Heav'n alone deems fit to take or give!