Our Bessie

Our Bessie was as sweet a girl,
     As ever happy mother kissed,
And when our Father called her home.
     How sadly was she missed.
For, grave or gay, or well or ill,
     She had her thousand winning ways,
And mingled youthful innocence
     With all her tasks and plays.

How softly beamed her happy smile,
     Which played around the sweetest moth
That ever fashioned infant words;
     The sunshine of the South,
Mellowed and soft, was in her eye,
     And brightened through her golden hair;
And all that lived and loved, I ween,
     Did her affection share.

With reverent voice she breathed her prayer,
     With gentlest tones she sung her hymn;
And when she talked of Heaven, our eyes
     With tears of joy were dim.
Yet in our selfish grief we wept,
     When last her lips upon us smiled;
Oh! could we, when our Father called,
     Detain the happy child?

Our home is poor, and cold our clime,
     And misery mingles with oue mirth;
Twas meet out Bessie should depart
     From such a weary earth:
Oh! She is safe—no cloud can dim
     The brightness of her ransomed soul,
Nor trials vex, nor tempter lure
     Her spirit from its goal.

We wrapt her in her snow white shroud,
     And crossed, with sadly tender care,
Her little hands upon her breast,
     And smoothed her sunny hair.
We kissed her cheek, and kissed her brow,
     And if aright we read the smile
That lingered on the dear one’s lips,
     It told of Heaven the while.