This lock of hair thy forehead shaded,
This silken chain by thee was braided;
These flowers, all withered now,
like thee,
Sweet sister, thou didst cull for me;
This book was thine, here didst thou read;
This picture, ah! yes, here, indeed,
I see thee still.
Here was thy summer noon's retreat,
Here was thy favorite fireside seat;
This was thy chamber-here, each day,
I sat and watched thy sad decay;
Here, on this bed, thou last didst lie,
Here, on this pillow, thou didst die :
Dark hour! once more its woes unfold;
As then I saw thee, pale and cold,
I see thee still.
Thou art not in the grave confined-
Death cannot claim the immortal mind;
Let earth close o'er its sacred trust,
But goodness dies not in the dust;
Thee, O my sister, 't is not thee
Beneath the coffin's lid I see;
Thou to a fairer land art gone;
There, let me hope, my journey done,
To see thee still!
JOHN QUINCY ADAMS.
SURE, to the mansions of the blest
When infant innocence ascends,
Some angel, brighter than the rest,
The spotless spirit's flight attends.
On wings of ecstasy they rise,
Beyond where worlds material roll,
Till some fair sister of the skies
Receives the unpolluted soul.
That inextinguishable beam,
With dust united at our birth,
Sheds a more dim, discolored gleam
The more it lingers upon earth.
Closed in this dark abode of clay,
The stream of glory faintly burns:-
Not unobserved, the lucid ray
To its own native fount returns.
But when the LORD of mortal breath
Decrees his bounty to resume,
And points the silent shaft of death
Which speeds an infant to the tomb-
No passion fierce, nor low desire,
Has quenched the radiance of the flame; Back to its God the living fire
Reverts, unclouded as it came.
Fond mourner! be that solace thine!
Let Hope her healing charm impart,
And soothe, with melodies divine,
The anguish of a mother's heart.
O, think! the darlings of thy love,
Divested of this earthly clod,
Amid unnumbered saints above,
Bask in the bosom of their GOD.
Of their short pilgrimage on earth
Still tender images remain :
Still, still they bless thee for their birth,
Still filial gratitude retain.
Each anxious care, each rending sigh,
That wrung for them the parent's breast, Dwells on remembrance in the sky,
Amid the raptures of the blest.
O'er thee, with looks of love, they bend;
For thee the LORD of life implore:
And oft from sainted bliss descend,
Thy wounded quiet to restore.
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