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ON THE DEATH OF THE DOWAGER LADY POWERSCOURT.[1]
Angels, strike your harps of gold!
Who surround the eternal throne;
Though the Godhead ye behold,
Sympathy with man ye own.
O'er his fallen, yet kindred, race,
Still ye watch with holy love,
And, ransomed through a Saviour's grace,
Behold him seek your ranks above.
Who surround the eternal throne;
Though the Godhead ye behold,
Sympathy with man ye own.
O'er his fallen, yet kindred, race,
Still ye watch with holy love,
And, ransomed through a Saviour's grace,
Behold him seek your ranks above.
- ↑ This pious lady had felt a presentiment of her approaching death a week before she was attacked with any sickness, and immediately arranged her affairs, to the most minute particular, accordingly; on completing which she was taken ill, and died in a few days.
