The works of Mrs. Hemans With a memoir of her life, by her sister. In seven volumes |
 | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
 | VI. |
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THE ANGEL'S GREETING. |
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| VII. |
 | The works of Mrs. Hemans |  |
THE ANGEL'S GREETING.
“Hark!—they whisper!—Angels say,
Sister spirit, come away.”
Pope.
Sister spirit, come away.”
Pope.
Come to the land of peace!
Come where the tempest hath no longer sway,
The shadow passes from the soul away—
The sounds of weeping cease.
Come where the tempest hath no longer sway,
The shadow passes from the soul away—
The sounds of weeping cease.
Fear hath no dwelling there!
Come to the mingling of repose and love,
Breathed by the silent spirit of the dove
Through the celestial air.
Come to the mingling of repose and love,
Breathed by the silent spirit of the dove
Through the celestial air.
Come to the bright, and blest,
And crown'd for ever! 'midst that shining band,
Gather'd to Heaven's own wreath from every land,
Thy spirit shall find rest!
And crown'd for ever! 'midst that shining band,
Gather'd to Heaven's own wreath from every land,
Thy spirit shall find rest!
Thou hast been long alone:
Come to thy mother!—on the Sabbath shore,
The heart that rock'd thy childhood, back once more
Shall take its wearied one.
Come to thy mother!—on the Sabbath shore,
The heart that rock'd thy childhood, back once more
Shall take its wearied one.
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In silence wert thou left:
Come to thy sisters!—joyously again
All the home-voices, blent in one sweet strain,
Shall greet their long bereft.
Come to thy sisters!—joyously again
All the home-voices, blent in one sweet strain,
Shall greet their long bereft.
Over thine orphan head
The storm hath swept, as o'er a willow's bough:
Come to thy Father!—it is finish'd now;
Thy tears have all been shed.
The storm hath swept, as o'er a willow's bough:
Come to thy Father!—it is finish'd now;
Thy tears have all been shed.
In thy divine abode,
Change finds no pathway, memory no dark trace,
And, oh! bright victory—death by love no place:
Come, spirit, to thy God!
Change finds no pathway, memory no dark trace,
And, oh! bright victory—death by love no place:
Come, spirit, to thy God!
| The works of Mrs. Hemans | |