But one short hour
She came and tripped it o'er the rugged earth,
Like a light sunbeam o'er the troubled wave;
Then shrank in silence to her little grave,
A rose-bud bitten at its opening birth.

The hand of death
Had ta'en before her one who loved her well
With all the fondness of a Mother's heart,
Whose darling's soul was made of Heav'n a part
E're sank the echoes of her own death-knell.

And so she died:
Before her mind scarce knew the way to live.
But sorrowing tears 'twere useless now to shed:
Our hopes must bloom, or mingle with the dead,
As Heav'n alone deems fit to take or give!