My babe, thou'rt like a pretty bud
Upon a blasted bough;
A bird come from the shady wood
To shiver in the snow;
Or like the fragile butterfly
That spreads its downy wing
Ere yet the sun begins to dye
The blossoms of the spring.

The moonbeam soft and purely shines
Upon my baby's face,
And my heart closer round her twines
As I thy features trace.
My Mary — once as fair to see
As summer's blooming flowers,
Whose smile made home as bright to me
As summer's gayest bowers.

But now the beauteous rose may bloom
Upon the breast of May,
The scented violet may perfume
The breath of closing day;
The lily pure, the primrose fair,
The daisy on the lea,
May grow again, but ah! they ne'er
Can summer bring to me.

The snow is on the flowery nook
Where I so oft did rest,
And frozen is the crystal brook
Whose waters made me blest.
The golden sunbeams that were showered
So freely in my home
Are gone, and a dark cloud has lowered,
Through which no light can come.

The whisperings of the silver sea
That ripples to the shore;
The sighings of the fragrant breeze
That sweeps my garden o'er;
The warblings of the little birds,
Earth's softest voices all,
My Mary dear, thy winning words
And gentle tones recall.

And, darling, oft at night I dream
I see thee near me stand
With beauteous ones, who to me seem
Thy sister angel band.
And oh! thy words come like sweet balm
To this lone heart of mine,
As in the selah of your Psalm
Ye tell them — I am thine.