DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY OF SIXTEEN
by Mrs. L.G. Abell
Oh, I cannot, cannot think of her without a starting tear;
So late, in youthful loveliness, I felt her presence near:
Her healthful form of fairest mould, I seem to see her still,
And to hear her sweet and gentle voice, as the voice of summer rill.
Her eye of blue, like azure sky of clear pure light above,
With soft silk fringes on the lids, shading the deepest love,
Was a light that gleamed from out the heart, and its rainbow hues revealed
A ray from its own full happiness, too full to be concealed.
At twilight's calm and silent hour, on the hushed lake's quiet breast,
I saw her gliding joyously, as glide the waves to rest
And music, too, was on the air, soft as Eolian strain;
But I thought not then that Death was near, a victim soon to gain.
Oh, can it be that this is life! - a thing so frail as this!
Like a lovely flower that only smiles to give one thought of bliss
That blooms in light and beauty a fleeting summer day,
Then closes up its sweetness, and passes thus away ?
How still she lies! her ringlets droop, of pale and soft brown hair
Parted upon her marble brow, they fall neglected there;
Her cold hands folded on her breast, her round arms by her side
How sad all hearts that knew her well that she so soon has died!
How she is missed from out each spot where she so late has been;
Her silent chamber thrills the heart with keenest throbs of pain;
Her music, too, of voice and string seems ling'ring on the ear,
Only to fill the heart with woe that its sound ye cannot hear.
How long life looked to her; its far and distant day
Seemed like the rosy path she trod, and perfumed all the way;
No tear but those for others' woe had ever dimmed her eye,
For her youth was cloudless as the morn, and bright as noonday sky.
But ah! how soon the light is quenched that shone so sweetly here
And oh! if love to God was hers, it glows in a brighter sphere!
That strange, mysterious spark of mind, shrined in the frailest clay,
Now flames amid the seraph band in a "house" that will not decay.
This world we know is full of tombs, covered with fairest flowers;
But yet how soon we all forget, and think them rosy bowers!
We build our hopes of pleasure here, select a fairy spot;
But Death soon proves to our pierced souls that he has not forgot!
Oh! wisely, wisely let us learn that this earth is not our home;
'Tis but the trial-place of life, a race that's swiftly run:
Our precious hours are links of gold in that mysterious chain,
That fastens to our life above its pleasure or its pain.
Reclining on a Saviour's arm, we then walk safely here;
He whispers holiest words to us, and wipes the falling tear:
If Death appears, He takes away his cruel, poisonous sting
Then for a home of perfect bliss He plumes the spirit's wing.
- 1851 - |
