Mary's Death

A poem by Nora Pembroke

Mary, ah me! gentle Mary,
Can it be you're lying there,
Pale and still, and cold as marble,
You that was so young and fair.

Seemeth it as yestereven,
When the golden autumn smiled,
On our meeting, gentle Mary,
You were then a very child.

Busy fingers, flitting footsteps,
Never resting all day long;
Shy and bashful, and the sweet voice
Ever breaking into song

Always gentle, kind and thoughtful,
Blameless and so free from art,
'Twas no wonder one so lovely
Found a place within my heart.

You, while life was in its spring time,
Made the Scripture Mary's choice;
Jesus saw you, loved you, called you,
And you listened to His voice.

Ever patient and rejoicing,
Shielded thus from unseen harm;
On you journeyed, safely leaning
On an everlasting arm.

Three short years have not yet passed us
Flitting rapidly away,
Since we shared in the rejoicing
On your happy bridal day.

He, the lover of your childhood,
Won a bride both good and fair;
Three short years have not yet passed us,
Mary dear--and now you're there.

Well may he grow sick with weeping,
And with sore heart mourn his loss;
Sadly look on those two babies,
Left so early motherless.

Not for thee we weep, my darling,
An eternal gain is thine;
We weep because we dearly loved thee,
And for those you left behind.

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