You, while life was in its spring time,
Made the Scripture Mary's choice;
Jesus saw you, loved you, called you,
And you listened to His voice.
Ever patient and rejoicing,
Shielded thus from unseen harm;
On you journeyed, safely leaning
On an everlasting arm.
Three short years have not yet passed us
Flitting rapidly away,
Since we shared in the rejoicing
On your happy bridal day.
He, the lover of your childhood,
Won a bride both good and fair;
Three short years have not yet passed us,
Mary dear--and now you're there.
Well may he grow sick with weeping,
And with sore heart mourn his loss;
Sadly look on those two babies,
Left so early motherless.
Not for thee we weep, my darling,
An eternal gain is thine;
We weep because we dearly loved thee,
And for those you left behind.
TO ISABEL.
I often thought to write to thee, what time
I almost fancied heaven-born, genius mine,
And fondly hoped my island harp to wake,
To some new strain sung for my country's sake.
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