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The little crib is empty now,
The little clothes laid by;
A mother's hope; a mother's joy
In death's cold arm doth lie.
Go little pilgrim to thy home
On yonder blissful shore;
We miss thee here, but soon will go
Where thou hast gone before.
This lovely bud was young and fair,
Called hence by early doom;
Just came to show how sweet a flower
in Paradise would bloom.
E'er sin could harm, or sorrow fade,
Death came with friendly care,
The opening bud to Heaven conveyed
And bade it blossom there.
Sleep on in thy beauty,
Thou sweet angel child;
Thy sorrow unblighted,
by sin undefiled
Like the dove of the ark
Thou hast flown to thy rest;
>From the wild sea of strife
To the home of the blest.
Those little lips, so sweet to kiss
Are closed forever now;
Those sparkling eyes that shown so bright,
Beneath thy pearly brow.
That little heart that beat so high
Free from all care and gloom
Are hidden now, from those who love,
Beneath the silent tomb.
Mr. and Mrs. William Knable