Nor let a blossom that she nurs'd,
A stem she taught to twine,
By aught of cold forgetfulness
Droop on the parent vine.
And in our hearts the germs she placed,
With the warm trust of prayer,
Still fondly cherish for her sake
With unabated care;
Deep fear of God, good will to man,
Religion's meek pursuit,
These were the seeds our mother sowed,—
Let them bear perfect fruit.
"TROUBLE NOT YOURSELVES, FOR HIS LIFE IS IN HIM."
Where lingers life when breath is o'er,
When light and motion part?
And when the flowing veins no more
Supply the pulseless heart?
Beneath that brow so deadly fair?
That changeless marble cheek?
Those lips of adamant? Say, where
The life of which ye speak?
For one revered and loved I sought,
His hand was strangely cold,
And o'er his form the shroud had wrought
Its labyrinthine fold,
