O mourn not, fond mother, the joys that depart,
There is comfort and peace for the stricken in heart;
God has taken the spirit that basked in thy love,
'The beautiful angels' have borne it above.

The plant that you reared to brighten earth's gloom,
Had fastened its roots in the soil of the tomb;
It smiled in your garden, so gentle and fair,
It has climbed o'er the wall, and is blossoming there.

The jewel you wore with pride on your breast,
Now flashes its light in the land of the blest;
The rose is still fragrant though torn from the stem,
The setting is ruined, but safe is the gem.

Then gird thee to labor, to trial, to love,
The treasure, still thine, awaits thee above;
Be faithful, be earnest, night soon will be riven,
And the lost one of earth be thy jewel in heaven.