High hope that an infant's spirit
Can soar 'bove the highest star- That her lot is so blest, to inherit
A home where the ransomed are.
Flowers we strew o'er her pillow- Violets of softest hue;
The boughs of her weeping willow Will steep them with rosy dew.
She came when Spring was recalling The victims of Winter's blast,
And went when the sear leaves were falling, And pale flowers withering fast.
At her birth there were smiles of gladness, And songs of the jocund Spring :
At her death there were tears and sadness, And two hearts withering.
"EARTH'S CHILDREN CLEAVE TO EARTH."
EARTH'S children cleave to earth: her frail, Decaying children dread decay.
Yon wreath of mist that leaves the vale, And lessens in the morning ray- Look, how, by mountain rivulet,
It lingers, as it upward creeps,
And clings to fern and copsewood set Along the green and dewy steps: Clings to the fragrant kalmia, clings To precipices fringed with grass, Dark maples where the wood-thrush sings, And bowers of fragrant sassafras. Yet all in vain: it passes still
From hold to hold; it cannot stay;
And in the very beams that fill
The world with glory, wastes away, Till, parting from the mountain's brow, It vanishes from human eye,
And that which sprung of earth is now A portion of the glorious sky.
NAY, nay-close not the casement- 'Tis the last sun these eyes shall open on. Fear naught for me-the summer breeze is not Too rough, it gently fans my fevered cheek, And yields delicious coolness to my brow. Raise me, good Nina-I would fain look forth On this bright world once more-'t is the last
Methinks all things look fairer than of yore;
The golden sun, that pours his blessed light
In rich effulgence o'er this lovely land, Ne'er looked to me so bright as in this hour- His setting one, and mine.-What memories Of long-forgotten happiness the time
And scene call back! By yonder verdant hill, How oft in this glad light I've loved to rove, A careless merry child, and twined me garlands Of sweet wild flowers-no hot-house denizens; How oft I've climbed unto its very top, And there, beneath the dear old hoary elm That crowned its summit, have I flung me down On the fresh turf, and gazed on all below, And thought that Paradise, in its first day, Could scarce have owned more happy loveliness, Than this--my native land.
Yon river-winding through its flowery path, Now dancing in the sun, now lost to view Within the glooming shadow of the grove- How well I trace its devious way, and hail Each rock and tree as old remembered friends. And there-in yonder bower, I mark it well- Where lingers still the sun's last golden beam, How oft have I too lingered, till the stream That murmurs through it, with so sweet a voice, Sparkled in the full glory of the risen moon.
And there was one that hung beside me then, The loved, the chosen of this breaking heart-Sleep, memory, sleep, nor tear the wound anew!
'Tis gone at last, my latest earthly sun, And evening's sombre hue is shed o'er all.
Take me, good nurse; I've bid the world farewell; Life flutters feebly in my fainting frame;
I feel the tyrant's grasp upon my heart,
And prayer becomes a dying creature more Than vain regrets-I would commune with Heaven, And to His mercy, who for sinners suffered, Commend my parting spirit.
SHE was even yet in childhood, but she seemed Wasting in strength like a half-opened bud Bowing upon its stem. She lay at rest, Her young heart leaning with a perfect faith Upon the word of God; and thus her eye
Shone with such inward light, and her pale lips Moved with such smiles, that even those who
Felt in their inmost hearts a thrill of joy.
With what a marvellous vigor can the soul Put forth its hidden strength, looking at Death As at an angel from the courts of God! And with what beauty, at the closing hour, Will childhood's sweet affections blossom out!
There she lay;-peaceful as if in slumber; A thoughtful calmness resting on her brow, And the long silken lashes of her eyes Pressed meekly to each other: while her heart Seemed musing upon things that were to come, Or raised in silent worship. All was still;- There came no sound upon the summer air Except the birds' faint warble, or the voice Of the low-murmuring stream. Her pulse had stopped-
And those who gathered round leaned slowly o'er To see if yet she breathed;-when suddenly She started in her bed, upright; spread out her
And fixing upon space her kindling eyes, As if she saw her glorious home in heaven, "How beautiful! how beautiful!" she cried, And, sinking on her pillow-passed away.
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