(Written in her fifteenth year.)

Cold is his brow, and the dew of the evening
Hangs damp o'er that form I so fondly caressed;
Dim is that eye, which once sparkled with gladness,
Hushed are the griefs of my infant to rest.

Calmly he lies on a bosom far colder
Than that which once pillowed his health-blushing cheek;
Calmly he'll rest there, and silently moulder,
No grief to disturb him, no sigh to awake.

Dread king of the grave, Oh! return me my child!
Unfetter his heart from the cold chains of death!
Monarch of terrors, so gloomy, so silent,
Loose the adamant clasp of thy cold icy wreath!

Where is my infant? the storms may descend,
The snows of the winter may cover his head;
The wing of the wind o'er his low couch may bend,
And the frosts of the night sparkle bright o'er the dead.

Where is my infant? the damp ground is cold,
Too cold for those features so laughing and light;
Methinks, these fond arms should encircle his form,
And shield off the tempest which wanders at night.

This fond bosom loved him, ah! loved him too dearly,
And the frail idol fell, while I bent to adore;
All its beauty has faded, and broken before me
Is the god my heart ventured to worship before.

'T is just, and I bow 'neath the mandate of Heaven,
Thy will, oh, my Father! for ever be done!
Bless God, O my soul, for the chastisement given,
Henceforth will I worship my Saviour alone!