I've lost my loved, my cherished little one,
Who smiling, prattling, clasped her Father's knee.
Alas! Her transient hour of life is run,
And her sweet tone and smile are nought to me.
The grave hath claimed her. Oft I seem to hear
Her blessed voice charming the vacant air.
I listen; but my own fond fancy's ear
Frames the sweet sound. My loved one is not there.
Onward, to where yon green tree waves its shade,
I look, when summer's sultry sun is high;
There, in her days of life and health, she played;
In vain I thither turn my weeping eye.
God in his mercy took her; and 'tis mine
To feel his ways are right, nor let my heart repine.
— American Cottage Life (1850) XXXV.