1S50-G0.] M. LOUISA CHIT WOOD. 631 THE SEAMSTRESS. A DIRGE, and an open grave, A coffin upon the bier ; Then the clay fell over the care-worn breast. And a form went down to its place of rest, Like a weary bird to her evening nest. In the tall trees waving near. She had struggled long with life, Long with her weight of woe, Till her eyes were dim with their flood of tears, Till her breast was sick with its hopes and fears ; She had struggled on through weary years, Till the sands of life were low. She had toiled from the early morn. When over the sleeping earth The clear bright rays of the sunlight fell Over the city, forest and dell ; And music woke like a fairy bell. With a tremulous sound of mirth : Till the golden sun was set, And the changing day gone by. And the stars shone forth like diamonds bright Set in the jeweled crown of Night ; And the moon pour'd forth her flood of light From the far-oflT azure sky : Till her rounded cheek grew pale. With her weary, toilsome lot ; No friends were near, with their fond caress. To speak kind words, to soothe and bless ; But she struggled on in her loneliness, Unnoticed and forgot. Like a fettered bird long caged, Which is at length released. Her soul flew forth from its cage of clay Into the fields of light and day, Where her spirit knows no more decay. But all shall whisper peace. They have placed her in the tomb ; None shed a sorrowing tear ; The busy world will go plodding on ; The night shall come, and the morning dawn For long, long years, yet the spirit gone. No more shall suffer here. BOW TO NONE BUT GOD. Turn thy face to the sunshine ! Let nothing cast thee down. While truth upon thy forehead Rests blazing like a crown. Look up ! nor fear, nor falter, Though a monarch press the sod — Soar upward like an eagle. And bow to none but God ! Cringe not to Wealth's proud children, Though robed in garments fine — Give not an inch ! the pathway Is theirs not more than thine ; Let thy stern eye confront them, Bearer of hoe or hod. Onward and upward, ever Bow thou to none but God ! Look up ! be brave and steadfast, Press onward to thy goal ; Art thou not the possessor Of an immortal soul? Soul bought by throes of anguish, In the garden where He trod — Soul, costly as a monarch's : Bow thou to none but God ! Shall thy cheek flush with crimson Before the world-called great ?
