Sweet child, that angel face must fade,
   As years shall come and go.
For time doth ever mar the fair
   And bright of all below.
But thy fond mother's jealous care
   Hath robbed the yawning tomb,
And by the might of art, hath fixed
   For e'er thy youthful bloom.
Within her sacred shrine there hangs
   In all its infant grace,
On Root's unequaled, perfect plate,
   Her darling's glorious face.
Then, mother of the blooming child,
   Trust not the fleeting hours,
But, as this mother did by hers,
   Do thou at once by yours.
Then, should the sudden dart of death
   Your loved one call away,
You'd bless the hint by which you had
   The picture done to day,