Do’nt weep for me, dear mourning friends,
   I’m not afraid to meet my God;
     The chief of sinners pardon finds,
   Washed in the Savior’s precious blood.

     He sleeps in Jesus and is blest;
   I hear the sacred word proclaim,
     That all shall find eternal rest,
   Who trusted in their Savior’s name.

     Nor has the pale destroyer done,
   Although one victim is at rest;—­
     He plucks his dagger from the son,
   And plants it in a daughter’s breast.

     The blooming Susan feels the blow,—­
   Her ruby lips turn deathly pale,—­
     She cries, Oh! mother, I must go,—­
   This fatal weapon cannot fail.

     The blushing rose forsakes her cheek,—­
   The lily now usurps its place;—­
     But still she’s patient, mild and meek,
   She daily grows in ev’ry grace.

     Though fading, yet more lovely still. 
   She twines around each kindred heart,
     While this dread truth their bosoms fill,
   That they with her must shortly part.

     The long feared fatal hour draws near,—­
   Deep silence hushed the mourning throng,
     Yet still her feeble voice they hear,—­
   Dear mother, falters on her tongue.

     That name her infant tongue first learned,
   It trembled on her latest breath;—­
     Yet a deaf ear the monster turned,
   And hushed the tender sound in death.

     A placid smile is on her brow;—­
   Does filial love still linger there? 
     Or does her convoy angel now
   Breathe heavenly music in her ear?

     Long ere a springing blade appeared
   Upon that daughter’s new made grave,—­
     Consumption cries, Oh! be prepared,
   Another blooming form I crave.

     A youthful son was now his prey,—­
   Whose rising merits win each heart,—­
     A noble mind beams from his eye,—­
   Fair virtue dwells in his young heart.

     Yet pale disease now lurks around,
   His active limbs their vigor lose;
     But lo! he hears the joyful sound;—­
   The gospel brings him glorious news.

     What though his earthly house decays,
   And swiftly sink life’s ebbing sands;
     He’s one eternal in the skies,
   Not made by dying, mortal hands.

     While friends ask, must you go so soon,
   Oh must we part with you to-day? 
     He, smiling, says, I crave the boon;
   Joyful I go without delay.

     My Savior cheers the lonely vale,
   His smiles of love dispel the gloom;
     Oh then how can my courage fail—­
   Why should I dread the peaceful tomb?

     The Savior blest this lowly bed,
   And robbed the monster of his sting;
     My Lord will raise me from the dead,—­
   Give me a harp and bid me sing.

     Behold this lovely, youthful saint,
   In raptures close his dying eyes;
     He yields to death without complaint,
   And soars triumphant to the skies.