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The songs she sang, without lament,
In her prison-house of pain,
Forever are they sweetly blent
With the falling summer rain.

"Upon the last lid's polished field—
Legend now both fair and true—
A gallant knight bears on his shield,
'Amy,' in letters gold and blue.
Within the snoods that bound her hair,
Slippers that have danced their last,
Faded flowers laid by with care,
Fans whose airy toils are past—
Gay valentines all ardent flames,
Trifles that have borne their part
In girlish hopes, and fears, and shames.
The record of a maiden heart,
Now learning fairer, truer spells,
Hearing, like a blithe refrain,
The silver sound of bridal bells
In the falling summer rain.

"Four little chests all in a row,
Dim with dust, and worn by time,
Four women, taught by weal and woe,
To love and labor in their prime.
Four sisters, parted for an hour,—
None lost, one only gone before,
Made by love's immortal power,
Nearest and dearest evermore.
Oh, when these hidden stores of ours
Lie open to the Father's sight,
May they be rich in golden hours,—
Deeds that show fairer for the light.
Lives whose brave music long shall ring
Like a spirit-stirring strain,
Souls that shall gladly soar and sing
In the long sunshine, after rain.

"j. m."