OUR little Mary is not dead; but, sweetly gone before,
She waits, to win, and welcome us, upon that happy shore:
To win us, with the memories, that linger, of her love;
And welcome us, to share, with her, the blessedness, above.
She is our little Mary, still, and never can grow old;
As young, as when the angel came, and took her, froth our fold;
Made like unto the Mary-born, the only Undefiled,
She lives, in heaven's unchanging youth, our own immortal child.
Our dear ones, all, are growing up in beauty and in grace;
In manhood, and in womanhood, to fill, please God, their place;
But, whatsoever He may take, of all, that He has given,
One gift of His, we cannot lose, our little one in heaven.
RIVERSIDE, January 13, 1851.