Lines, Written on the Death of Mrs. Caroline P. Baldwin, Who Died
July 6, 1827.

  O bring a wreath of summer flow’rs,
    And twine it lightly round her brow;
  How calmly pass these holy hours—­
    Mysterious death is with her now.

  His icy breath is on her cheek,
    His dew is freezing on her brow;
  Her eyes no more earth’s shadows seek—­
    Eternity’s before them now.

  She sees a glittering angel band,
    On downy pinions floating by,
  To waft her to the spirit land,
    Beyond the blue etherial sky.

  And hears low music stealing by,—­
    From golden harps the concert rings;
  Earth mingles in the melody
    That rises, to the King of kings.

  “Husband, I know I’m dying now,
    Life’s golden sands are waning fast;
  Seal on my lips the parting kiss,—­
    It is the last one—­yes, the last.

  “Now bring to me our blue eyed boy,—­
    I’d gaze upon his face once more;
  May he, kept from earth’s alloy,
    Meet me on yon blissful shore.”

  “Mother, your love is pure and deep—­
    I know the fount will never dry;
  But in its onward current keep,
    Through a long eternity.

  “Sister, I’m passing to the tomb,
    When life’s young morn is fair and bright;
  And shrouded soon, my youthful bloom
    Shall dreamless sleep in death’s dark night.

  “Dark, did I say—­O, no, I see
    The golden city full in view;
  The pitying Saviour smiles on me,
    And angel-bands conduct me through.

  “Sweet as the carol of a bird,
    Soft as the gentlest summer sigh,
  When scarce one trembling leaf is stirr’d
    My sinking pulses faint and die.”

  And so death rested on her cheek,—­
    Lingering in “strange beauty there;”
  That seraph smile a rapture speaks—­
    That earthly pleasures may not share.

Lines, Written in a Sick-Room, April 15, 1855.

  O, fold my flowing curtains by,
    I fain would catch the breath of spring,
  And breathe its gentle, balmy sigh,
    As soft it floats on silken wing.

  Lightly it fans my pallid cheek,
    And cools the fever of my brow,
  And seems of coming health to speak,
    As soft it murmurs round me now.

  Oh, there are those in life’s young morn,
    Who, gazing forth with earnest eye,
  Feel that spring’s joyous, glad return,
    Brings but to them the time to die.

  While I, a pilgrim, worn and gray,
    Wearied with care, still linger on,
  Life’s path to tread, one little day,
    Before the feverish race is run.

  On the great battle-field of life,
    The warp of destiny is spread,
  And countless millions in the strife,
    Supply the woof with varied thread.

  O, there are some, with hearts of truth,
    With courage bold, and daring high,
  Whose texture scarce from early youth,
    Presents one blemish to the eye.