As the flower early gathered, whilst fresh in its bloom,
So was she whom I mourn for sent young to the tomb;
In the pains of her travail, the prime of her youth,
Whilst the memory survives of her sweetness and truth.
Why bursts from this breaking heart one human sigh,
She but sleeps-whilst her spirit is borne up on high;
Her course upon earth was so fair and so even,
That I know her pure soul has ascended to Heav'n.
Ah! cease then poor orphans to mourn round her bier,
'Tis for you-'tis for you that I shed the sad tear;
I will toil for you, dear ones, though she is no more,
And we must not lament that her sufferings are o'er.