O GOD! we know that thou art just
And merciful in all thy ways,
Yet Lord, in earnest grief we must
Weep sadly, even while we praise;
Must mourn the vanished loveliness
Which cheered us like an Angel's smile —
The seraph-goodness, sent to bless
Our spirits, for a little while,
Then backward unto Thee to turn,
With the pure soul of ELLEN BYRNE.
She came, as comes the golden light, —
A sunbeam to the freezing heart; —
Clothed, even here, in Heaven's own white;
Ah! why so early to depart?
She kept the soul thou gavest her,
Untarnished, in this world of sin,
Her every thought a worshiper
Before the holy shrine within;
Her every deed an offering, given,
Pure and acceptable, to Heaven.
Mourn! mourn! for what the earth hath lost,
Poor outcasts, wretched and forlorn,
Sad spirits, scarred and tempest-tost,
Mourn ! for a loving soul hath gone.
A heart whose every pulse beat high
With pity for the scorned and poor,
Warm with unbounded sympathy,
Shall throb for you, oh never more!
Weep! though your tears can ill repay
The goodness, which hath passed away.
Dark bondman! doomed in chains to pine,
And bleeding from the oppressor's rod,
Mourn, but in hope, — a friend of thine
Hath gone, to plead for thee with God.
When speeding to thy home afar,
The land of refuge to the slave,
Led onward by the Northern Star,
One moment bend above her grave,
And wet with grateful tears the urn
Which holds the dust of Ellen Byrne.
Thy woes were often on her tongue,
And many were her prayers for thee ;
And sorely was her kind heart wrung
For crushed and wronged Humanity.
The up-gushing of a boundless love
In such a great and generous heart,
O! it is mighty, to remove
Bondage, and burst its chains apart ;
And it shall work its pure intent,
Though she hath gone to Him who sent.
FRIENDS! in whose souls her quiet love
Was like a holy Presence, given,
God's witness, from the world above,
Of that, which ever reigns in Heaven;
Weep! for in tears there is a balm
For the sick heart's too keen distress,
Soothing its bitterness to the calm
Of deep, yet quiet tenderness;
Weep! or the grief-wrung heart will bleed;
For she hath been a friend indeed.
Mourn SISTERS ! ay, I know ye will,
Yet wrong her not with your despair:
Though Ellen's heart is cold and still
In death, her spirit is not there;
She lives! and, fondly may we trust,
Will visit oft the low, green spot,
Where ye shall bend above her dust;—
Inspiring, even when heeded not,
Your souls with higher hope and bliss,
And life, diviner far than this.
MOTHER! the deeper pang is given
To thee, for in her life was thine ;
Yet murmur not; she bends from Heaven,
White-robed, and breathing songs divine,
Heard only when the soul in deep
Devotion wrestles with its God,
What time the star-eyed Angels keep
Their night-watch o'er the dewy sod; —
And there thy sainted Ellen waits,
To greet thee at the golden gates.
Yet we must weep, who knew her worth;
Yea, weep that such a guileless heart
Should mingle with the common earth,
Though "sanctified in every part;"
That one sent here to show how much
Of goodness may be swathed in clay, —
Even when the world hath need of such,
Should pass from us so soon away;
In deepest sorrow shall we mourn
Above the grave of Ellen Byrne.
But while we cherish, in each breast,
The virtues, which have made her form
A temple for the Holiest
Reared, with an altar ever warm, —
With joy to us shall Death unbar
The portals of the land of Rest,
Where, radiant as the morning star,
She bends adoring with the blest;
And gladly shall our souls return,
To meet in Heaven our Ellen Byrne.
EPITAPH.
Sorrow and joy above her ashes sway;
Her loving trust and hope, her sympathy
And her unstudied goodness could not die;
For this our souls are glad:
But that decay should touch the clay
Which bound, within her stainless breast,
Such holy virtues in so sweet a nest,
For this what soul would not be sad?
For this our eyes are tearful when we turn
From the low grave which claims the dust of ELLEN BYRNE.
Ellen Byrne