Classic Poem

She is gone from her home, from her kindred departed,
To the dust we resign her, the young and pure-hearted.
The form that we loved, and the hopes that we cherish'd,
Ere yet their bright morning was over, have perish'd:
No more to her friends, in this sojourn of sorrow,
Shall the sweet voice of Catharine e'er welcome the morrow.

To us waSher presence a fountain of sweetness,
Her mortal existence a bright dream of fleetness;
But the chain that had bound her fair spirit is broken,
The final farewell has been mournfully spoken,
And long shall her friends for her absence be weeping,
Who now in yon silent green valley lies sleeping.

She is gone to her rest, to her kindred departed,
To the choirs of the angels, so young and pure-hearted
The Lord hath but taken the gift he had given,
Too lovely for earth, hath recall'd it to heaven,
And the blossom now pluck'd from the arbor in sadness,
Shall there bloom, unfading, in beauty and gladness.
Then weep, ye who loved her, now lone and forsaken,
But weep not for her whom her Saviour hath taken,
She is gone ere the fragrance of childhood was blighted,
Or the spirit's pure pathway grown dim and benighted,
And soon shall ye meet her, though now doom'd to sever,
To greet, and to dwell with your Catharine for ever.