On the Death of Willie White, Who Was Drowned Sept. 21, 1856.
Reading edition
How suddenly this opening flow'r Was borne from earth away; In sweeter fragrance to unfold In realms of endless day. The angel gaz'd with pitying eye O'er all life's devious way; Then pluming bright his golden wings, Bore his freed soul away. Now when you gather round your hearth, There's Willie's vacant chair; And Willie's voice of childish mirth, Is missing every where. And oft you gaze upon his toys, 'Till weeping eyes grow dim; You know he cannot come to you, But you must go to him.