MRS. MARGARET WALBRIDGE,

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.