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.