Poems (E. L. F.)/On J. S.
ON J. S., WHO DIED OF CONSUMPTION.
I stood beside the couch of one, Whose quick and fevered breathConveyed what wan disease had done— The work was thine, O death!
Few months ago, in life's young bloom, She dreamt not of thy power,Nor deemed the dark and dreary tomb So soon should o'er her lower.
Thy hand, O death! may chill life's frame, It cannot chain the soul,Which, soaring with ethereal flame, Mounts to a heavenly goal.