 | The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury |  |
200
STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF A SISTER.
Weep for the dead! 'tis meet that tears should consecrate the spot
Where sleep the loves of better years, the hopes that cheered our lot;
When the once peopled heart is left all desolate and lone,
'Tis meet that tears should gem the trace of each departed one;
Yet not in hopeless grief we mourn,—we know that they are blest,
“Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are the rest.”
Where sleep the loves of better years, the hopes that cheered our lot;
When the once peopled heart is left all desolate and lone,
'Tis meet that tears should gem the trace of each departed one;
Yet not in hopeless grief we mourn,—we know that they are blest,
“Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are the rest.”
Weep for the dead! a vacant place is left beside our hearth,
We miss a low and gentle voice with its tones of quiet mirth;
The meek and placid face that seemed a moonlight ray to shed,
Now, veiled forever from our view, rests with the dreamless dead;
Yet not in hopeless grief we mourn—that spotless soul is blest,
“Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.”
We miss a low and gentle voice with its tones of quiet mirth;
The meek and placid face that seemed a moonlight ray to shed,
Now, veiled forever from our view, rests with the dreamless dead;
Yet not in hopeless grief we mourn—that spotless soul is blest,
“Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.”
201
Weep for the dead! as summer showers refresh the thirsting earth,
So on the scathed heart fall the tears that mourn departed worth;
And virtues, all unseen before, 'neath their pure influence rise,
As summer's fairest flowers are nursed by April's weeping skies.
Surely the dead may claim our tears, e'en though we know them blest,
“Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.”
So on the scathed heart fall the tears that mourn departed worth;
And virtues, all unseen before, 'neath their pure influence rise,
As summer's fairest flowers are nursed by April's weeping skies.
Surely the dead may claim our tears, e'en though we know them blest,
“Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.”
Weep for the dead! the bounteous God who gave us hearts to feel,
Meant not that we their hidden founts of tenderness should seal;
How could we learn our mighty debt of gratitude to pay
For blessings left, if nought we recked of blessings snatched away?
Yes! we may weep the sainted dead, e'en though we know them blest,
“Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.”
Meant not that we their hidden founts of tenderness should seal;
How could we learn our mighty debt of gratitude to pay
For blessings left, if nought we recked of blessings snatched away?
Yes! we may weep the sainted dead, e'en though we know them blest,
“Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.”
| The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury | |