On the Death of Harriot Francis Wheeler

BY P. H. YOUNG.

A beautiful rose, by the morning's soft breezes, I hailed thee with rapture, when the soft dews were shining

Had budded, alas! for a day; Upon thee, in infantile days.

The dew drops were kissing the opening flower, I saw thee when blooming, embraced thee with anguish,

As the sun rose to drive them away. As thou droop'd in the sun's scorching rays.

When first I beheld it, I long'd for the opening, But alas thou hast fled from this garden of flowers,

Which dews in their turn would perform, To the garden of God far on high;

And watching its glory, I saw, but with anguish, Which thou left for a moment, to bloom in a bower

Concealed in its bosom a worm. On earth,-then to wither and die.

This rose, though in infancy, yet I found blooming - May the stalk that produced thee, still bloom in this bower,

With graces exceeding by far Till thou shalt descend from the sky,

The rest of the roses that bloomed in the garden, With Jesus who vanquished the power that destroyed thee,

With its beauty none there could compare. And crowns thee with fullness of joy.

O goddess of flowers! why hast thou thus cherished

Fond hope in a bosom like this;

While in thine own vitals a worm thou hast nourished,

To take thee from earth, home to bliss.