LINES.
[The hues of life are fading from her wan and wasted cheek]
The hues of life are fading from her wan and wasted cheek;
Her voice is as an infant's voice, a whisper faint and weak;
But still we look and listen, for our hearts have never known
Such sweetness in a countenance, such softness in a tone.
She is passing from the world, from the weary world away,
From the sorrows that afflict us, from the pleasures that betray;
And another Home—a fairer Home—is opened to her sight,
Where the summer shines for ever, where the roses know no blight.
I know that we shall miss her, in the evening and the dawn,
In our converse round the fireside, in our walk upon the lawn;
I know that we shall miss her, in our mirth and in our care,
In the breaking of our bread, and in the breathing of our prayer.
And not the ring or brooch alone, but whatsoe'er we see,
The river and the green hill-side, the cottage and the tree,
Will bring her image back to us; there is not in our heart
A single hope—a single fear—in which she has no part.
Yet weep not, if you love her, that her tedious toil is done;
O weep not, if you love her, that her holy rest is won!
There should be gladness in your thought and smiles upon your brow,
For will she not be happy then?—is she not happy now?
And we will learn to talk of her;—and after many years
The tears which we shall shed for her will not be bitter tears,
When we shall tell each other, with a fond and thankful pride,
In what purity she lived, and in what peacefulness she died.
May 26, 1830.
