Elizabeth Margaret Chandler

“ The bosom proud beating of sorrow unknowing,
The gush of emotion around the heart glowing,
How soon will they perish and wither away!
And yet, it were better to die in life's morning,
Before we have seen its illusions depart,
Than to live when the flowers that our life were adorning,
Have wither'd, and hope hath deserted the heart—
'T were better, when mandate of death has been spoken,
That slowly and singly life's chords should be broken,
Than in health's brightest bloom without warning or token
At once to be stricken by death's fatal dart. ”

“ It is sad to see youth in its loveliness dying,
Ere the freshness of spirit hath wasted away,
While the earth seems around like a paradise lying,
And the hopes of the bosom too bright for decay—
Before life's cup of care hath imparted its fever—
Ere hope, smiling hope hath been proved a deceiver—
This world seems too lovely to part with forever,
To mingle again with inanimate clay. ”

“ While life only seem'd like a beautiful dream,
Adorn'd with whatever is richest or rarest,
Whatever most bright to the senses may seem—
They died, and the cold turf is resting above them—
They heed not the grief of the bosoms that love them,
The tears of affection no longer can move them,
Or wake them again to the day's joyous beam.
Consumption! 't is thou that their life-springs hast wasted!
'T is thou that hast wither'd the bud in its bloom! ”