So dying-like and frail,

     So dying-like and frail,
     That every bitter gale
     Of winter seemed to blow
     Only to lay her low!
     She lived to show how He,
     Who stills the stormy sea,
          Can overrule the winter’s power,
          And keep alive the tiniest flower—
          Can bear the young lamb in his arms,
          And shelter it from death’s alarms.

     When spring, with brightest flowers,
     Was fresh’ning all the bowers.
          The linnet sung her choicest lay,
     When her sweet voice was hushed for aye!
          The snowdrop rose above the ground
          When she beneath her pillow found,
     Both cold, and white and fair—
     She, fairest of the fair,
     She died to teach us all
     The loveliest must fall.
     A curse is written on the brow
     Of beauty;—and the lover’s vow
     Cannot retain the flitting breath,
     Nor save from all-devouring death.

     The spirit left the earth;
     And He who gave her birth
     Has called her to his dread abode,
     To meet her Saviour and God.
     She lives, to tell how blest
     Is the everlasting rest
          Of those who, in the Lamb’s blood laved,
          Are chosen, sanctified and saved.
     How fearful is their doom
     Who drop into the tomb
     Without a covert from the ire
     Of him who is consuming fire.

     The grave shall yield his prize,
     When, from the rending skies,
          Christ shall with shouting angels come
          To wake the slumberers of the tomb.
     And many more shall rise
     Before our longing eyes.
          Oh! may we all together meet,
          Embracing the Redeemer’s feet!

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