Mother! I’ve news for thee from Heaven!
Thy daughter boweth near the throne!
O, canst thou not for her rejoice,
Though thou art left alone?
Hast thou not seen her lovely eye
Gaze on thee through her glitt’ring tears,
Though thou didst strive from every ill
To shield her tender years?
Mother! thy daughter weeps no more,
For all her tears are dried away;
Exhaled like dew-drops from the rose,
Beneath the sun’s bright ray!
Hast thou not seen how cruel pain
Could steal the roses from her cheek,
And wring the moisture from her brow,
And leave her faint and weak?
Mother! thy daughter is in Heaven,
And pain can never reach her there,
No sickness comes to those who breathe
That pure delightful air!
Look up, with faith’s observant eye,
And see thine angel daughter now!
I would not wish to call her back
To this dark world—wouldst thou?
“O! no—O! no”—I hear thee say,
“My Savior hath his promise kept;
He comforts me; and yet I must
Weep on—for Jesus wept!”
“But let the youthful Christian go
Thus early to her peaceful home;
Yes—I am willing now to lay
My darling in the tomb!”
CHARLESTON, February 14, 1841.