Isabella M. Steele


Why must the grave hide one whose light would shine
To bless the world? why friends and kindred mourn?
And this cold stone — why must it vainly strive
To tell a mother's love, a mother's grief?

The grave must hide the young, the fair, the good,
To prove the grave to be the gate of life
Through which they pass to joys that bloom not here.
Kindred and friends must mourn, that they may long
To meet again, where they shall part no more
A mother's heart must bleed that He who wounds
Only to heal, may call its hopes from earth
To fix them with a sainted child in heaven
When graves give up their dead, O! then may all
Who weep o'er this, reap blessings from their tears
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