poems.
109
THE ANGEL'S CALL.
The golden sun was sinking
Behind the western hill,
Wearing a smiling, cheerful face,
And knowing nought of ill.
It shed its lustrous beauty
Over a maiden fair,
And reflected on the roses.
That were fading in her hair.
She was lying on a snow-white couch,
With short and quivering breath,
And weeping friends had gathered round
To await the angel Death.
She raised her pale and dying hand;
A smile beamed o'er her face;
"Dear friends, I leave you now," she said;
"In heaven there's 'perfect pence;'
The golden gates wide open are;
I see a heavenly light,
And fairy bells are ringing clear:
O! 'tis a blissful sight.
Behind the western hill,
Wearing a smiling, cheerful face,
And knowing nought of ill.
It shed its lustrous beauty
Over a maiden fair,
And reflected on the roses.
That were fading in her hair.
She was lying on a snow-white couch,
With short and quivering breath,
And weeping friends had gathered round
To await the angel Death.
She raised her pale and dying hand;
A smile beamed o'er her face;
"Dear friends, I leave you now," she said;
"In heaven there's 'perfect pence;'
The golden gates wide open are;
I see a heavenly light,
And fairy bells are ringing clear:
O! 'tis a blissful sight.
