Lines, Written upon the Death of Two Sisters.

  What heav’nly music greets mine ear! 
  What seraph’s voice is that I hear,
  Breathing in numbers soft and low? 
  Methinks th’ angelic strains I know.

  Dearest sister, come away,
  There’s nought on earth that’s worth thy stay;
  Then, sister, linger not, but haste
  The joys of paradise to taste.

  The songs of praise we utter here,
  Have ne’er been heard by mortal ear;
  Nor mortal eye hath ever seen
  “The fields array’d in living green.”

  The gates of precious stone unfold,
  The streets are paved with shining gold;
  Pure crystal streams of water flow,
  And trees of fadeless verdure grow.

  There is no sighing here, nor tears,
  No guilty thoughts, no doubts or fears;
  But love is pure and never dies,
  And songs of endless praise arise.

  Then sister, linger not, but come,
  Angels await to guard thee home;
  Here, in the mansions of the blest,
  Here shall thy weary soul find rest.

  Sister, I come, thy cheering voice
  Bids my whole heart and soul rejoice;
  Fain would my ling’ring spirit rise
  On wings of Faith beyond the skies.

  I linger but a little space,
  To gaze upon my husband’s face;
  My gentle infant’s lips to press,
  And fold my first born to my breast.

  My mother’s voice once more to hear,—­
  Once more to see a brother dear,
  A sister’s parting kiss receive,—­
  Then, dearest sister, I will leave.

  E’en now my clouded senses feel
  A heav’nly transport o’er them steal;
  My sight grows dim, thick comes my breath;
  Sister, I come, for this is death.

To I——.

  My long neglected lyre I’ll take,
  And seek its echoes to awake;
  But it hath lain untuned so long,
  Scarce can I hope to frame a song.

  Yet, when I sweep the trembling strings,
  A low sad wail of music rings;
  Encouraged by that gentle strain,
  I’ll touch the silken cords again.

  I wish thee happiness, my friend,—­
  Such as on virtue doth attend;
  And pray that grief’s dark funeral pall
  May ne’er upon thy young heart fall.

  O may an interest in Christ’s blood,—­
  Thy soul, bathed in that crimson flood,
  Shall be from guilt’s dark stain set free,
  Thy sins no more imputed thee.

  I wish a friend, faithful and kind,
  Noble, sincere, pure and refined,
  Whose sympathy with thine shall blend,
  And to life’s duties sweetness lend.

  Loving and loved, thy bark shall glide
  Smoothly along life’s rapid tide,
  Until ’tis launched upon the sea
  Of infinite eternity.

Lines, Written for a Friend upon the 20th Anniversary of Her Birthday.

  Would some kind Muse my heart inspire,
  With the poetic heaven-born fire,
  That did in olden times belong
  To gifted bards, of ancient song.