This was her birth-day here,
When summer's latest flowers
Were kindling to their flush and prime,
As if they felt how short the time
In these terrestrial bowers.
She hath a birth-day now
No hastening night that knows,
She hath a never-ending year
Which feels no blight of autumn sere,
Nor chill of wintry snows.
She hath no pain or fear,
But by her Saviour's side
Expansion finds for every power;
And knowledge her angelic dower
An ever-flowing tide.
They sorrow, who were called
From her sweet smile to part,
Who wore her love-links fondly twined
Like woven threads of gold refined
Around their inmost heart.
Tears are upon the cheeks
Of little ones this day,
God of the motherless,--whose eye
Notes even the ravens when they cry
Wipe Thou their tears away:
Oh, comfort all who grieve
Beside the sacred urn,--
For brief our space to wail or sigh,
Like grass we fade, like dreams we fly,
And rest with those we mourn.