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The cup of affliction thou shrank'st not from draining,
 Nor fell from thy pale lips one murmuring breath,
For thy Saviour, thy trust, thy bowed spirit sustaining,
 Consoled thee throughout the dark valley of death.

'Twere selfish, my Mother, were we to regret thee,
 Removed to that holier, happier sphere,
But never through time or change shall we forget thee:
 Whilst mem'ry can brood o'er thy tenderness here.

A mournful, yet sweet consolation we'll borrow
 From oft-times recalling thy patience, thy trust,
And still as we name thee the big tear of sorrow
 Shall flow to thy memory—thou laid in the dust.

Even now do the scenes of each young recollection
 Come back with the light of that happier time:
Thou art with us again, with thy tones of affection,
 In our old distant home, 'mid our gardens in prime.

We cluster around thee beneath the broad shadow
 The sycamore flings on the green sunny earth,
Or roam by thy side through the soft verdant meadow,
 When the pale dewy primrose in sweetness has birth.

Thou art pointing to dazzling clouds brightly reposing
 Along the rich west of a sun-setting sky,
And telling us pure spirits, after life's closing,
 Soar far 'bove that splendour, to never failing joy.