University of Virginia Library

DEATH OF MRS. HARRIET W. L. WINSLOW MISSIONARY TO CEYLON.

Thy name hath power like magic. Back it brings
The earliest pictures hung in Memory's halls,
Tinting them freshly o'er:—the rugged cliff,
The towering trees, the wintry walk to school,
The page so often conn'd, the needle's task
Achiev'd with weariness, the hour of sport
Well earn'd and dearly priz'd, the sparkling brook
Making its slight cascade, the darker rush
Of the pent river through its rocky pass,
Our violet-gatherings 'mid the vernal banks,
When our young hearts did ope their chrystal gates
To every simple joy.
I little deem'd
'Mid all that gay and gentle fellowship
That Asia's sun would beam upon thy grave,
Tho' even then, from thy dark, serious eye
There was a glancing forth of glorious thought
That scorn'd earth's vanities. I saw thee stand
With but a few brief summers o'er thy head,
And in the consecrated courts of God
Confess thy Saviour's name. And they who mark'd
The deep devotion and the high resolve
Of that young half-blown bud, did wondering ask
What its full-bloom must be. But now thy couch
Is with thine infant train, where the sad voice
Of the poor Ceylon mother tells her child
Of all thy prayers and labors. Yes, thy rest
Is in the bosom of that fragrant isle
Where heathen man with lavish nature strives
To blot the lesson she would teach of God.
Thy pensive sisters pause upon thy tomb
To catch the spirit that did bear thee through
All tribulation, till thy robes were white,
To join the angelic train. And so farewell,
My childhood's playmate, and my sainted friend,
Whose bright example, not without rebuke
Admonisheth, that home and ease and wealth
And native land, are well exchang'd for Heaven.