THE MOURNING LOVER. 207
Of her spirit's grief
She never spake. But, as the flush of health Receded from her cheek, her patient eye Gathered new lustre, and the mighty wing Of that supporting angel seemed to gird Closer her languid bosom : while in dreams A music tone, like his who slumbered deep Amid his country's dead, told her of climes Where vows are never sundered.
One mild eve,
When on the foreheads of the sleeping flowers The loving spring-dews hung their diamond wreaths, She from her casket dresv a raven curl, And press'd it to her lips, and laid it down Upon her Bible's page, and knelt to pour The nightly incense of a stricken heart At her Redeemer's feet. Grey morning came, And still her white cheek on that holy book Did calmly rest. Hers was that quiet sleep Which hath no wakening here. Fled from her brow Was every trace of pain, and in its stead Methought the angel, who so long had been Her comforter, had left a farewell-gift That smile which in the court of heaven doth beam.
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