And as we listen, breathlessly,
    To the low, mysterious tone,
  We deem some angel spirit
    Is whisp’ring to our own.

  But suddenly, a careless tone,
    Or word in harshness spoken,
  Recalls the wand’ring spirit home,
    And the spell is rudely broken.

  And then a sad, lone feeling steals
    Upon the weary heart,
  And amid the gloom we only feel
    A longing to depart.

  A longing to depart and be
    Amid the angel choir,
  Where perfect love and sympathy
    Shall tune each heart and lyre.

Lines, Written on the Death of a Friend.

  Oh, who would check the starting tear,
    Or who suppress the rising sigh,
  When those we fondly cherished here,
    In early youth are called to die?

  Such was thy fate, my early friend,
    Thus snatch’d away in beauty’s bloom;
  No aid that earthly love might lend,
    Could save thee, dear one, from the tomb.

  I call to mind thy greetings warm,
    Thy gentle smile, thy winning grace,
  And weep that now thy fragile form,
    Lies cold and still in Death’s embrace.

  But though I miss thy winning smile,
    And the sweet music of thy voice,
  That could my weary heart beguile;
    Yet I, amid my tears, rejoice,

  That thou, thus early, didst depart: 
    When all around was fair and bright: 
  Ere yet thy fond, confiding heart
    Had felt of earthly woe the blight.

  For it is sweeter, far, to die
    When the young heart with hope is fill’d,
  Than live o’er ruined hopes, to sigh
    When cold distrust that heart has chill’d.

  Who would not rather pass away
    From earth, like some sweet summer flow’r,
  When the soft murmuring zephyrs play. 
    Than live till wintry tempests lower?

  We trust thy sins have been forgiv’n;
    Thy soul made pure from guilt’s dark stain;
  And that a ransom’d soul in heav’n,
    Thou’lt raise to God the angelic strain.

  Then let no murmuring thought arise,
    Though lonely oft my path may be,
  And bitter tears oft dim my eyes,
    Unbidden, at the thought of thee.

  Still the sweet memory of thy love,
    Has power to sooth my aching heart;
  Even as crush’d and withered flow’rs,
    A lasting fragrance oft impart.

To a Friend.

  Dear girl, thine eye is clear and bright,
  Fill’d with a glad and joyous light;
  And thy young brow is pure and fair,
  As thou hadst never known a care.

  Full oft, I gaze upon thy face,
  Where dwells a sweet and quiet grace;
  And wonder what thy fate may be,
  Upon life’s dark and dangerous sea.

  Ah, many a rude, tempestous gale,
  Perchance, may rend thy little sail,
  Ere thou wilt reach that blissful shore,
  Where loving friends have gone before.