TO A SISTER WHILE DANGEROUSLY ILL.

   O Sister!  Sister! can it be
    That thou must droop, and die? 
   Still blending on thy fair young cheek,
    The rose and lily vie.

   But burning fever is the root
    From whence those roses spring;
   While pain and suffering, on thy brow,
    Those snowy lilies fling.

THE INVALID’S DREAM

   The sick girl sat with downcast eye,
   Her bosom heaved the deep drawn sigh,
   She felt that all complaint was vain,
   For health would ne’er return again.

   With pain and weariness oppressed,
   She sought her pillow, there to rest,
   While sleep a welcome visit paid,
   Bright scenes were to her view displayed.

   In fancy’s magic glass, she sees
   Her cheek, long faded by disease,
   The rose of health blooms there again,
   ’Tis no deceitful hectic stain.

   Lightly and firm her footsteps fell;
   In rapture, she exclaimed, “I’m well! 
   I bear no suff’ring, feel no pain,
   My long lost treasure I regain.”

   Her blooming form now stands erect,
   In fair and comely robes bedecked;
   Her limbs, so long with pain oppressed. 
   Can nimbly move or sweetly rest.

   Rejoicing friends their praises sing,
   To Hezekiah’s bounteous king;
   Well pleased, she hears their grateful songs,
   And her glad voice the strain prolongs.

   But sleep his downy pinions spread,
   Her slumbers broke, the vision fled;
   Her burning temples throbbed with pain,—­
   She was an invalid again.

TO A BUTTERFLY IN MY CHAMBER.

   Whence art thou, frail, wand’ring stranger,
     Softly flitting round my bed? 
   Is thy life exposed to danger? 
     Are thy friends and kindred dead?

   Does the cold rude breath of autumn,
    Chill thy little fragile form? 
   Hast thou come to seek a shelter
    From the dreaded gath’ring storm?

   Art thou now our friendship trying? 
    Wouldst thou test the vows we made,
   When thou was so gaily flying
    ’Round us, ’neath the fragrant shade?

   Or, wouldst thou our hearts be cheering,
    Through this pensive lonely eve,
   While the chilly winds are bearing
    On their wings the faded leaf?

   Would thou wast the Father’s token,
    That the sweet celestial dove,
   When the golden bowl is broken,
    Will support us by his love,—­

   Will, in that dread painful conflict,
    Flit around our dying bed,
   And, to fill the soul with comfort,
    Whisper, “blessed are the dead.”

TO THE “WILD FLOWER."[5]

   I’ve ranged the bright streamlet in childhood’s blest hour,
   And culled from its borders spring’s loveliest flowers,
   Then bound up my bouquet, all glitt’ring with dew,
   And smiled on my treasure as homeward I flew.