187
SONNET,
TO MRS. R.
Thou, angel-like, sitst at the couch of pain,
Inspiring thoughts of heaven, while in thine eye,
Where lingers the soft tear of sympathy,
There is a holy rapture: yes,in vain
Pain, sickness, anguish—rivals to thy love—
Would dim the hope, and quench the sufferer's faith;
Thy tender smile disarms the sting of death;
At thy bright presence all its fears remove.
Thou enterest, and with thee the visions come
Of the blest spirits and immortal bowers;
The very fragrance of thy fading flowers
Breathes some sweet thoughts, and whispers of that home,
Where, when these days of pain and weakness flee,
The unfettered sold shall meet its God and thee!
Inspiring thoughts of heaven, while in thine eye,
Where lingers the soft tear of sympathy,
There is a holy rapture: yes,in vain
Pain, sickness, anguish—rivals to thy love—
Would dim the hope, and quench the sufferer's faith;
Thy tender smile disarms the sting of death;
At thy bright presence all its fears remove.
Thou enterest, and with thee the visions come
Of the blest spirits and immortal bowers;
The very fragrance of thy fading flowers
Breathes some sweet thoughts, and whispers of that home,
Where, when these days of pain and weakness flee,
The unfettered sold shall meet its God and thee!
