ON THE DEATH OF THE DOWAGER LADY POWERSCOURT.
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Early doomed to feel the smart
Of affliction's chastening rod,
She reposed a widowed heart
On the bosom of her God.
Of affliction's chastening rod,
She reposed a widowed heart
On the bosom of her God.
Through this wilderness she passed,
Supported by her Saviour's arm,
And to behold his face at last
Could death of every sting disarm.
Hastening her duties to fulfil,
Assured her Lord would call her home
From that high station which his will
Said, "Occupy till I shall come,"
Supported by her Saviour's arm,
And to behold his face at last
Could death of every sting disarm.
Hastening her duties to fulfil,
Assured her Lord would call her home
From that high station which his will
Said, "Occupy till I shall come,"
Her stewardship she calmly closed,
Though yet no sickness touched her frame:
Her house in order she disposed,
And then the looked-for summons came.
She sickened,—human aid was vain,—
She knew that now her hour was come.
Angels, pour forth a glorious strain!
Her happy spirit welcome home!
Though yet no sickness touched her frame:
Her house in order she disposed,
And then the looked-for summons came.
She sickened,—human aid was vain,—
She knew that now her hour was come.
Angels, pour forth a glorious strain!
Her happy spirit welcome home!
