On the death of a young lady (Mourn not for Marg'ret! her sufferings are o'er)

Mourn not for Marg'ret! her sufferings are o'er,And her glorified spirit rejoices in bliss;Triumphantly crowned, she remembers no more,In the joys of the next world, the sorrows of this.Conformed to her Saviour in suffering here,She drank of the cup which her Father had given,And exchanged for a higher and holier sphereThe trials of earth, for the treasures of heaven.

Mourn not for her, though in youth's early bloomThe summons to leave all most dear has been sent;Though tears, bitter tears, may be shed o'er her tomb,He loves her far more who recalls what he lent.Yes, Marg'ret! in thee Ihave lost one whose loveThrough life I had hoped would my pilgrimage cheer;But though thou hast fled to the mansions above,My trembling footseps may follow thee there.

Mourn not for Marg'ret! though great be our loss,Though her sweet disposition endeared her to all;If we strive for the crown, we must take up the Cross,Else earth would our wayward affections enthrall.Though cold is that heart which so warmly could glow,Though silent that voice which so sweetly would thrill,Though the sigh may arise, the unbidden tear flow,We would bow to the stroke most submissively still.