ON THE DEATH OF MISS C*****.
47
Oh couldst thou, sweet and gentle girl, on earth no longer dwell?
Had thy dear mother's love no power to hold thee with its spell?
Had thy sweet sister's pleading voice no tone to keep thee here?
Had life no charm to make thy home than paradise more dear?
Ah no, the bright, the angel band bent gently from the sky,
And wooed and won thee to their home, their own blest home on high.
And there, beneath the holy shade of myriad starry wings,
Thou wanderest 'mid the living flowers of heaven's own living springs,
To hear the lofty music tones, the hymns of rolling spheres,
Blend with thy own soul melodies through God's eternal years.
But oh! does deeper, tenderer love in those high realms have birth,
Than that which lives and throbs and weeps in human hearts on earth?
Had thy dear mother's love no power to hold thee with its spell?
Had thy sweet sister's pleading voice no tone to keep thee here?
Had life no charm to make thy home than paradise more dear?
Ah no, the bright, the angel band bent gently from the sky,
And wooed and won thee to their home, their own blest home on high.
And there, beneath the holy shade of myriad starry wings,
Thou wanderest 'mid the living flowers of heaven's own living springs,
To hear the lofty music tones, the hymns of rolling spheres,
Blend with thy own soul melodies through God's eternal years.
But oh! does deeper, tenderer love in those high realms have birth,
Than that which lives and throbs and weeps in human hearts on earth?
