But could their vision now extend
   To those bright realms where dwells their friend,
     Their tears would cease to flow;
   They’d long to leave this dusky sphere,
   And from their lips we soon should hear,
     “Dear Savior, let me go.”

   No more they’d wish the seraph here,
   To wander in this vale so drear,
     And lay his glory by;
   To suffer years of grief and pain,
   And cross cold Jordan’s stream again,
     To reach the joys on high.

THE SISTER’S LAMENT

LINES SUGGESTED BY THE DEATH OF E. TORRY, OF PORTLAND

   Oh, Edward, dear Edward! how precious that sound,
   I seek for an equal—­it cannot be found;
   In tones soft and pensive it visits my ear,—­
   I fain would believe thou art hovering near.

   Since thy happy spirit to heaven has fled,
   Art thou with me by day, by night round my bed? 
   I visit thy grave and bedew it with tears,
   To share in my sorrow, no Edward appears.

   On earth ’t was thy pleasure to soothe all my grief,
   To wipe off my tears and to bring me relief;
   Thy heart’s warm affections were lavished on me,
   I’ve spent happy moments conversing with thee.

   My counselor, playmate, my guide, and my friend,
   On whom I might always in safety depend,
   In paths of fair virtue my feet thou hast led,
   Where vice, that foul monster, dares not show his head.

   Nor was all thy kindness bestowed upon one;
   Thou wast an affectionate, dutiful son;
   Thy dear honored parents drank deep of thy love,
   None ever shared more but thy Father above.

   Thy father now sinks ’neath a burden of woe,
   His once brilliant eyes now with tears overflow;
   Thy mother sits weeping, thy fond brothers sigh,
   The dear little children cease playing and cry.

   Fair nature is wearing a mantle of gloom,
   Deep sorrow sits brooding all round our sweet home;
   The soft venial zephyrs come sighing along,
   The streamlets are murm’ring a sad, mournful song.

   The gray twilight shades come attended with gloom,
   While like a dark pall they encircle thy tomb;
   When soft showers descend, something whispers to me,
   That tears from the clouds are descending for thee.

   No star spangled heavens nor cool shady bowers,
   No deep ancient forest or fair fragrant flowers
   Can fill up the void that I feel in my breast,
   Although thou art tuning thy harp with the blest.

   In dreams I behold thee when I am asleep,
   It cheers up my spirits and I cease to weep;
   Enshrined in my heart thy fair image shall dwell,
   I’ll keep it there always, I love it so well.

LINES UPON A LOCK OF HAIR.