For Mary.
Oh! may the brightest smiles of heaven
That beam on men below,
Still shine upon sweet Mary's path,
Wherever she may go.
May Angels, like herself! still guard
Her steps from every ill,
Until she walks in robes of white,
O'er God's high, happy hill.
And, when, in that celestial clime,
She beams a spirit bright--
How sweet to think she'll love me then
Where nought our love can blight.
That beam on men below,
Still shine upon sweet Mary's path,
Wherever she may go.
May Angels, like herself! still guard
Her steps from every ill,
Until she walks in robes of white,
O'er God's high, happy hill.
And, when, in that celestial clime,
She beams a spirit bright--
How sweet to think she'll love me then
Where nought our love can blight.
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