Felicia Hemans

“ Yet, if the glee of life's fresh budding years,
In those pure aspects may no more be read,
Thence, too, hath sorrow melted—and the tears
Which o'er their mother's holy dust they shed
Are all effaced;—there earth has left no sign,
Save its deep love, still touching every line.
But oh! more soft, more tender, breathing more
A thought of pity than in vanish'd days;
While, hovering silently and brightly o'er
The lone one's head, they meet her spirit's gaze
With their immortal eyes, that seem to say,
"Yet, sister!—yet we love thee—come away!" ”

“ And a voice is in each fold,
Like an oracle's of old.
Heard'st thou, while with dews of night
Shone its berries darkly bright?
Yes! the whisperer seem'd to say,
'All things—all things pass away! ”

“ There shall be no more snow, [2]
No weary, wandering feet.
So we lift our trusting eyes,
From the hills our fathers trode,
To the quiet of the skies,
To the Sabbath of our God. ”