Beside a cradle for a space
An angel paused and bent to look,
And seemed to see his own pure face
As in the mirror of a brook.

“Dear child, that so resemblest me,”
He sweetly said, “ah, come away.
Together we shall happy be;
Thou art too good on earth to stay.

“There is no perfect bliss below;
For even pleasure has its sting,
Each song of gladness chords of woe,
Each joy its sigh of suffering.

“Oh, then, must trouble and must fears
Impair the beauty of thy brow?
Must sorrow dim with bitter tears
Those eyes, where heaven is shining now?

“No, no. The flowery firmament,
The fields of glory for us wait;
Tow'rd thee doth Providence relent,
And saves thee from an earthly fate.

“Let none wear mourning in thy home,
For all should be as glad, dear child,
This day that bids thy spirit roam,
As when thy blue eyes earliest smiled.

“Let no face there show sorrow's sign;
Let no one deck the house for death;
For when the soul is white as thine,
The latest is the happiest breath.”

And speaking thus, the angel wide
His snowy pinions waved, and fled
To where the pure for aye abide.
Poor mother, see, thy babe is dead!