 | The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury |  |
274
STANZAS
ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY.
Could friends have stayed the dart of death,
Thou hadst not sure have died;
Could love recall life's fleeting breath,
Thou still wert at our side;
But thou wert hurried to the tomb
In all the flush of beauty's bloom,
In all thy youthful pride;
Affection, powerless to save,
Could only weep above thy grave.
Thou hadst not sure have died;
Could love recall life's fleeting breath,
Thou still wert at our side;
But thou wert hurried to the tomb
In all the flush of beauty's bloom,
In all thy youthful pride;
Affection, powerless to save,
Could only weep above thy grave.
'Twas not the touch of slow disease,
Sapping life's hidden springs,
Weaning the soul, by slow degrees,
From all to which it clings;
'Twas not a summons long delayed,
And still reluctantly obeyed,
Called thee from earthly things:
A few brief days alone were given
To win thy thoughts from earth to heaven.
Sapping life's hidden springs,
Weaning the soul, by slow degrees,
From all to which it clings;
'Twas not a summons long delayed,
And still reluctantly obeyed,
Called thee from earthly things:
A few brief days alone were given
To win thy thoughts from earth to heaven.
The world for thee was glad and bright,
Thy path was strewn with flowers,
And Pleasure shed her rosiest light
Upon youth's smiling bowers;
Yet no base fear was in thy heart
When called from all most loved to part,
E'en in life's morning hours;
For in thy soul was Heaven's own grace,
And angel brightness on thy face.
Thy path was strewn with flowers,
And Pleasure shed her rosiest light
Upon youth's smiling bowers;
Yet no base fear was in thy heart
When called from all most loved to part,
E'en in life's morning hours;
275
And angel brightness on thy face.
Fame slants no laurel o'er the tomb
Where thou dost calmly sleep,
But gentle memories round it bloom,
And love there bends to weep:
Thou wert of those the world knows not;
Thou art of those, the unforgot,
Who in our hearts we keep;
A mother's love—O! more than fame—
A mother's tears embalm thy name.
Where thou dost calmly sleep,
But gentle memories round it bloom,
And love there bends to weep:
Thou wert of those the world knows not;
Thou art of those, the unforgot,
Who in our hearts we keep;
A mother's love—O! more than fame—
A mother's tears embalm thy name.
| The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury | |