Thus early with the dead—
Thou of the young, fair brow, the laughing eye,
The light and joyous tread,—
Mary, we little thought thou would'st be first to die!

A little while ago
We saw thee first in girlhood's early bloom;
Now thou art lying low,
Thy pale hands crossed in slumber, silent in the tomb!

Ah me! 'tis hard to speak
Of thee as of the dead—the pale, still dead!—
'Tis hard to think the b'eak,
Stern blast of winter sweeps above thy low, cold bed!

* * * * *

Thus early with thy God!
'Twas a rich boon He sent whose loving voice
Called thee to His abode,
'Mid the sweet bowers of Heaven forever to rejoice!

Mary! thy feet have passed
The silent valley;—on thy placid brow
Heaven's sunlight falls at last,—
Thou'rt with God's shining ones—thyself an angel now!

Thank God! the dreary tomb
Has lost its sting! The Saviour broke death's reign,
Clothing with fadeless bloom
Frail human dust! In Heaven, Mary, we'll meet again!