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From dark abodes to fair ethereal light,

The enraptured innocent has winged her flight;

On the kind bosom of eternal love

She finds unknown beatitudes above.

This know, ye parents, nor her loss deplore—

She feels the iron hand of pain no more;

The dispensations of unerring grace

Should turn your sorrows into grateful praise;

Let, then, no tears for her henceforward flow

Nor suffer grief in this dark vale below.

Her morning sun, which rose divinely bright,

Was quickly mantled with the gloom of night;

But hear, in heaven's best bowers, your child so fair,

And learn to imitate her language there.

Thou, Lord, whom I behold with glory crowned,

By what sweet name, and in what tuneful sound,

Wilt thou be praised? Seraphic powers are faint

Infinite love and majesty to paint.

To thee let all their grateful voices raise,

And saints and angels join their songs of praise

Perfect in bliss, now from her heavenly home

She looks, and, smiling, beckons you to come;

Why then, fond parents, why these fruitless groans?

Restrain your tears, and cease your plaintive moans.

Freed from a world of sin, and snares, and pain,

Why would ye wish your fair one back again?

Nay, bow resigned; let hope your grief control,

And check the rising tumult of the soul.

Calm in the prosperous and the adverse day,

Adore the God who gives and takes away;