On the Death of Willie White, Who Was Drowned Sept. 21, 1856

How suddenly this opening flow’r
Was borne from earth away;
In sweeter fragrance to unfold
In realms of endless day.

The angel gaz’d with pitying eye
O’er all life’s devious way;
Then pluming bright his golden wings,
Bore his freed soul away.

Now when you gather round your hearth,
There’s Willie’s vacant chair;
And Willie’s voice of childish mirth,
Is missing every where.

And oft you gaze upon his toys,
’Till weeping eyes grow dim;
You know he cannot come to you,
But you must go to him.