Hush, mourning mother, wan and pale!
No sobs-no grieving now:
No burning tears must thou let fall
Upon that cold still brow;
No look of anguish cast above,
Nor smite thine aching breast,
But clasp thy hands and thank thy God-
Thy darling is at rest.

Close down those dark-fringed, snowy lids
Over the violet eyes,
Whose liquid light was once as clear
As that of summer skies.
Is it not bliss to know what e-er
Thy future griefs and fears,
They will be never dimmed like thine
By sorrow-s scalding tears?

Enfold the tiny fingers fair,
From which life-s warmth has fled,
For ever freed from wearing toil-
The toil for daily bread:
Compose the softly moulded limbs,
The little waxen feet,
Spared wayside journeys long and rough,
Spared many a weary beat.

Draw close around the lifeless form
The shreds of raiment torn,
Her only birthright-just such rags
As thou for years hast worn;
Her earthly dower the bitter crust
She might from pity crave,
Moistened by tears-then, final gift,
A pauper-s lowly grave.

Now, raise thy spirit-s gaze above!
See-st thou yon angel fair,
With flowing robes and starry crown
Gemming her golden hair?
Changed, glorified in every trait,
Still with that beauty mild;
Oh! mourning mother, thou dost know
Thine own, thy late-lost child.

An heir to heaven-s entrancing bliss,
Veiled in its golden glow,
Still thinks she of the lonely heart
Left on this earth below.
Courage!-not long thy weary steps
O-er barren wastes shall roam,
Thy daring prays the Father now
To quickly call thee home!