But oh, my beauteous one!
This gloomy path should not by thee be trod;
The grave, the worm, should not by _thee_ be known--
Go thou direct to GOD!
Thy passport white at Heaven's gate unroll,
(No dark hand-writing e'er hath soiled that scroll.)
'Twas thus the Saviour spoke:
'Those little children; suffer them to come.'
The mandate thou didst hear; the fetters broke
Which kept thee from thy home:
Awhile life's threshhold thou didst press with glee,
Then turned away; _this_ life was not for thee!