My child, why weepest thou? Are these drawn lines of sorrow alone thy
garlands? Why this dreary awe, this languishing on all around you? But
hush, these are the foot-prints of Death; he has indeed been with you
in his uncertain rounds. The deep, reposing influences indicate his
path. I will not dare to question a mother's love, so strange and
inexplicable in power, and so mysterious in operation, gentle as the
breathing of the memory, ungovernable as the whirlwind in its frenzy,
tender as the angel of sympathy, yet stronger than the bands of Death,
it is painful to witness such a cloud of sorrow resting on one so
young as you, without an atheistic questioning, the all-wise purposes
of our Father in heaven.

Your own lovely babe you so fondly adored,
Death's torn from the heart of her mother,
So full was your soul of a mother's deep love,
You would gladly have died to restore her.
Poor fragile, fading, short-lived flow'r,
She was bright and lovely for an hour.