ON THE DEATH OF MRS. N. P. WILLIS.
21
ON THE DEATH OF MRS. N. P. WILLIS.
In life’s freshness, and its fulness,—
In thy womanhood’s young bloom,
While thy brow was all unclouded
With a darkening ray of gloom,—
The Angel Death hath said to thee,
“Thy Father calls thee home.”
In thy womanhood’s young bloom,
While thy brow was all unclouded
With a darkening ray of gloom,—
The Angel Death hath said to thee,
“Thy Father calls thee home.”
And, as fades some lovely vision
In the morning’s gathering light,
Or as sinks some unsphered radiance
From the starry crown of night,
Or as dies some burst of music,—
Thou hast vanished from our sight.
In the morning’s gathering light,
Or as sinks some unsphered radiance
From the starry crown of night,
Or as dies some burst of music,—
Thou hast vanished from our sight.
Far across the foaming waters,
From the country of thy birth,
From thy childhood’s friends and memories,
From thy father’s silent hearth,
A strange soil unveils its bosom,
And must clasp thee, earth to earth.
From the country of thy birth,
From thy childhood’s friends and memories,
From thy father’s silent hearth,
A strange soil unveils its bosom,
And must clasp thee, earth to earth.
