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I saw her laid in the silent tomb,
And yet I wept not her early doom,

For I thought of a land of beauty and light,

Where there is no shadow, or darkness, or night;

And I knelt by her bed, and we prayed to bé
Soon united in this bright eternity;

And when I saw her young cheek fade,

And death and pain around her bed,
And her beautiful eyes grow dark and dim,
I saw that she raised her thoughts to Him,
Who could waft her soul from sorrow and pain,
To a land where joy and happiness reign;
And she placed her cold pale hand in mine,
And she smiled and spoke of things divine.

She spoke of a God of peace and of love
Who reigns in a world of beauty above!
A Saviour who had died, that we
That land of loveliness might see;

And she folded her hands upon her breast,

And she prayed that her soul might be at rest:

Yet she sometimes fondly and sadly took
Of my sorrowing face a farewell look,
And then turned away her bright'ning eye,
And again addressed the throne on high,
And death came on her like the gentle sleep
Of an innocent child, so calm and deep;
And she lay there like a pale young flower,
Lovely and fair in her dying hour;

And, Oh! it was beautiful to see,

A soul thus pass to eternity.



Oft have I thought, if I should die,

And leave the place of love I hold,

Oblivion soon the tear might dry,

And hearts, now warm for me, grow cold.

How would my inmost soul be chilled,
Could it, that back to life I came,
And found the seat I left was filled,

Myself remembered but in name.

No room for me by hearth or board,
No thought for me in head or breast,
Felt e'en by those I most adored,
An undesired intruding guest.

Well! such may be-yet in my heart
Full many a still loved dead one dwells,
Them no new loves shall bid depart,
Nor e'er usurp their sacred cells.

A smile should light them as they came,
(And fain would I their steps recal,)
And they should find me yet the same,
The kiss for some-the heart for all.-



Children of God, who, pacing slow,
Your pilgrim path pursue,

In strength and weakness, joy and woe,
To God's high calling true.-

Why move ye thus-with lingering tread,

A doubtful mournful band?

Why faintly hangs the drooping head?

Why fails the feeble hand?

Oh! wish to know the Saviour's power,
To feel a father's care;

A moment's toil, a passing shower

Is all the grief ye


The Lord of Light, though veiled awhile,

He hides his noon-day ray,

Shall soon in lovelier beauty smile

To gild the closing day;

And bursting through the dusky shroud,
That dared his power invest,

Ride throned in light o'er every cloud,

And guide you to his rest.



A rose in yonder garden grew
In summer beauty bright;
It fed upon the fragrant dew,

And bathed in beams of light.
The gentlest zephyrs still would creep
Warm o'er it from the west.;
And the night spirit loved to weep
Upon its beauteous breast;

And all the host of insect beaux
Would pause to trifle with the rose.

Alas! the flower, one fatal night,
The mildew rode the gale,

And from his pinions scattered blight
O'er garden, bower, and vale.

I saw it in the sunny morn,

'Twas dying on its stem;

Yet wore, though drooping and forlorn,

Its dewy diadem!

But every roving butterfly

Looked on the rose and wandered by !

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