To bear my lifeless form away. 
  They stand with mattock, and with spade,—­
  On me their icy hands are laid,
  While noisome vapors round me spread,
  Bespeak the precincts of the dead. 
  E’en then, sweet bird, at such an hour,
  When reason almost resigns her power;
  Thy pleasant notes have magic art,
  To soothe my palpitating heart;
  They come as wild, as free, as clear,
  As though no pain or woe were near.

  ’Tis true, that friendship’s hand is kind,
  My aching brow and heart to bind;
  Beside my bed a husband stands,
  And anxious children press my hands;
  A gentle mother acts her part,
  And sisters, with each winning art;
  Father and brothers waiting still,
  The slightest mandate of my will;
  Each anxious, who shall earliest prove,
  The tender gushings of their love.

  Sometimes there comes a vision fair,
  Of waving groves, and balmy air,
  Of placid skies, serene and mild,
  As slumber stealing o’er a child;
  Where breezes hushed to deep repose,
  Sleep in the bosom of the rose,
  And scarcely lift their fragile wing,
  One dew-drop from the flower to fling;
  But leave it for the sun’s warm ray,
  To kiss the pearly tear away. 
  Pleasant sounds the gushing rill,
  That bubbles down the verdant hill,
  Murmuring along ifs native glen,
  Far from the fev’rish haunts of men,—­
  Till kissing soft its pebbly shore,
  It dies, nor ever murmurs more. 
  And fairy forms around me dance,—­
  Now they retreat, and now advance;
  Bright wreaths around their heads they wear,
  And lutes in their fair hands they bear,
  Each warbling forth, in cadence low,
  Their pleasant number, as they go,
  And music floats high in mid air,
  As bands of angels hover’d there;
  Four massive chains of purest gold,
  A chrystal island seem to hold,
  Gently waving it in air,
  As angel spirits lingered there. 
  Like ocean, in a summer day,
  When gentlest zephyrs with him play.—­
  Just curl the ripples on his breast,
  Then sighing, sink with him to rest. 
  Beside the streams are pleasant bowers
  Adorned with ever-greens and flowers,
  Where insects float with gayest wing,
  And birds with sweetest voices sing,
  And happy spirits, free from care,
  Pluck the wild flowers that blossom there;
  Their forms are beauteous to behold,
  White silken wings, spangled with gold,
  Help them with easy grace to rise
  From this fair world to yonder skies. 
  They come and go at even tide,
  And sometimes on the sunbeams ride;
  And when they wish for railroad cars. 
  They ride upon the shooting stars: 
  Firmly unite them in a train,
  And skim along the aerial plain;
  No locomotive do they need,
  For their own will propels their speed. 
  The Aeolian harp, with plaintive wail,