48
ON THE DEATH OF MISS C*****.
The thousand blossoms that have died beneath the Autumn blast,
Will bloom in future Springs as bright as in the Springs long past;
The rose and violet will lift their cups of white and blue,
As erst at morn and mournful eve to catch the falling dew;
The bright wing'd birds will pour their songs of love flora every tree,
The bright young streams with ringing shout leap onward to the sea;
But naught of these can ever pierce the cold and silent shade,
Where, with thine arms upon thy breast, thy lovely form is laid.
Yet come to us, dear Nannie, come, in this soft, stilly hour,
And tell us of thy happy home in Heaven's immortal bower;
I know that thou art there, for all thy thoughts beneath the skies
Were beauteous as an Angel's dream asleep in Paradise.
And, oh I ask that when thy hymns of ecstasy ascend,
Thoul't breathe one deep and holy prayer for thy poor, erring friend,
Will bloom in future Springs as bright as in the Springs long past;
The rose and violet will lift their cups of white and blue,
As erst at morn and mournful eve to catch the falling dew;
The bright wing'd birds will pour their songs of love flora every tree,
The bright young streams with ringing shout leap onward to the sea;
But naught of these can ever pierce the cold and silent shade,
Where, with thine arms upon thy breast, thy lovely form is laid.
Yet come to us, dear Nannie, come, in this soft, stilly hour,
And tell us of thy happy home in Heaven's immortal bower;
I know that thou art there, for all thy thoughts beneath the skies
Were beauteous as an Angel's dream asleep in Paradise.
And, oh I ask that when thy hymns of ecstasy ascend,
Thoul't breathe one deep and holy prayer for thy poor, erring friend,
