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The smiles of joy, the tears of woe,
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow;

There's nothing true but heaven!

And false the light on glory's plume,
As fading hues of even;

And love, and hope, and beauty's bloom,
Are blossoms gathered for the tomb ;
There's nothing bright but heaven!

Poor wanderers of a stormy day,
From wave to wave we're driven;
And fancy's flash, and reason's ray,
Serve but to light the troubled way;
There's nothing calm but heaven!



Cold, cold lies the sod on a heart once as warm

As ever to earth was given;

And sadly and wild moans the winter storm
O'er as gentle a breast, and as lovely a form,
As ever seemed moulded for heaven.



As the dew that moistens the rose at dawn

Gives the violet many a tear;

So bright in the morning of life she shone,

That her fragrance still lives, while her spirit is gone,
Embalming her memory here.

As the summer sun, at the close of the day,
Bids adieu to the crimsoned west,


And sheds his loveliest richest
When his golden beams are melting away
Far, far on the ocean's breast:

So her viewless spirit, as soaring on high,
In pity to those who wept,

Gave a lingering look from its native sky,
And left such a trace in her dark blue eye,
That it seemed as an angel slept.

Oh! who ever gazed on a form so fair,
In the cold embrace of death?

The snowy brow and the raven hair,

And the smile that the lips was wont to wear,
Fled not with the parting breath!


There needs not the art of the sculptor to tell
The grave where ber relics lie;

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Her monument, now, are the tears that fell

At the mournful sound of her funeral knell :
And her epitaph, a sigh.

How religiously sweet rose the orb of day,

How solemn and still the morn,

When the infant throng, in their simple array,

Mourned their dearest friend, as they bent their way
To her lone appointed bourne.

Would you hear of the generous deeds of the dead,
Which language can never express?

Go ask the poor widow of yonder shed,

Who smoothed down her pillow, and tended her bed,
In the moments of deepest distress.

Go, ask the young orphan, who wiped off the tear,
Or the throb of affliction beguiled?

Who told of a home in a happier sphere,


And whispered this comfort, Thy father is near,
The sire of the fatherless child?'

Twas she whom I mourn, who sought the lone shed,
Made the widow and orphan rejoice,

Poured the oil and the wine on the penitent's head,
Gave the destitute clothing, the indigent bread,
And stooped to the supplicant's voice.

How oft on her efforts I've gazed with delight
When expanding the infantile mind!

Like Samaria's daughter, she poured on the sight
Of her brethren, wrapt in captivity's night,
The day-beam that brightens the blind.

But oh! 'tis a theme for an angel's lyre,

A subject for angel's song;

To tell of her love and her holy desire,

To be clothed with the meek and the lowly attire
Of the Lamb and his sainted throng.

Devotion with her was a feeling serene,

Unfashioned by art or by form,

An emotion heart-nurtured, yet modestly seen

To preside o'er each action, each gesture, and mien, With simplicity's loveliest charm.

For pure was her spirit, if mortal were pure,
And rich were the stores of her mind';
Confiding in Jesus, whose blessings secure
Whate'er is substantial, or precious and sure,
Her soul to her Lord she resigned.

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Farewell! sainted shade! though thy spirit is fled,... Remembrance will never depart,

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Though the clods of the valley now cover thy head,
Thy memory will ne'er be entombed with the dead
While life holds its seat in my heart.


Me let the tender office long engage,

To rock the cradle of reposing age;

With lenient arts extend a mother's breath,


Make languor smile, and smooth the bed of death;
Explore the thought, explain the asking eye,
And keep awhile one parent from the sky!


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Ye warriors of Israel, encompass the wall
Of this infidel city, that's destined to fall!
Ye Levites, go carry the ark of our God
Round the fortified bounds of this Gentile abode !
And tell by the trump, while your voices are dumb,
That the merciless hour of its suffering is come."


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