John Bradford

1706 - 1785

To Those Who Loved Her

Though gentle, loving, pure, and fair
A little maid of promise rare,
Who might in life's eventful race
Have won a bright and envied place—
Weep not for her.

Had she been granted length of life,
Her golden hair with beauty rife,
With which you fondly lov'd to play.
Care might have early ting'd with grey—
Weep not for her.

In paths not those prescribed by God,
With daring feet she might have trod.
With sin's dark dyes her soul have stained.
And ne'er a heavenly home have gain'd—
Weep not for her.

Tears might have dimm'd her sparkling eye.
Which you'd have lack'd the power to dry,
Though yearning to extract the dart
That rankled in her wounded heart—
Weep not for her.

Deep furrows too, in her smooth brow
Might have been cut by Griefs stem plough ;
But her life's glass has run its sands,
And safe she dwells with angel bands—
Weep not for her.
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