 | Art and Fashion |  |
207
PASSING AWAY.
I
Look from the casement!—look, and tellWhat's passing, mother, dear;
Since dawn I've heard a funeral bell,
Slow pealing on my ear;
And now there comes the solemn fall
Of footsteps sweeping nigh.
Look down the street, I hear their feet,
Some funeral's passing by.
The mother gazed with anxious face,
But nothing there was seen,
Except each old accustom'd place,
And what had always been.
II
A moment yet, dear mother, stay;Strange sounds are on the air,
Like angels singing on their way
Or voices deep in prayer!
208
For I am faint and low;
Help me to look upon the sky,
And bless them ere they go!
The mother raised her daughter's head,
But no word could she speak;
The hope that from her bosom sped
Left tears upon her cheek.
III
The night look'd through the casement old,And saw a cheek so pale—
A form so wasted, thin, and cold—
No skill might there prevail;
But that which conquers Death yet beam'd
Upon her wasted brow;
And sweet, as though an angel dream'd,
The sufferer rested now!
Ah, who the mother's grief may tell?
Or who may comfort bring?
Yet, high above the funeral bell,
She heard the angels sing!
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