Death of a Young Girl.
1 What though the stream be dead,
Its banks all still and dry!
It murmurs o'er a lovelier bed,
In air-groves of the sky.
2 What though our bird of light
Lie mute with plumage dim;
In heaven I see her glancing bright,
I hear her angel hymn.
3 True that our beauteous doe
Hath left her still retreat,
But purer now in heavenly snow,
She lies at Jesus' feet.
4 O star! untimely set!
Why should we weep for thee!
Thy bright and dewy coronet
Is rising o'er the sea.