95
And in my heart a pang more dread
Than that which makes the dying dead,
Tells, nought can ever more relieve,
Till mortal pains life's course arrest,
And from my struggling, writhing breast,
The soul in agony divest,
And the cold earth the corse receive.
Than that which makes the dying dead,
Tells, nought can ever more relieve,
Till mortal pains life's course arrest,
And from my struggling, writhing breast,
The soul in agony divest,
And the cold earth the corse receive.
TO HER FATHER,SUPPOSED TO BE DYING.[1]1833.
My Father! sweet thine accents fall,
And full of tender love;
These will thy suffering child recall,
When thou art blest above.
And full of tender love;
These will thy suffering child recall,
When thou art blest above.
Thou didst the words of joy and peace
With faith and love combine,
That taught my soul from earth to cease,
And seek to follow thine.
With faith and love combine,
That taught my soul from earth to cease,
And seek to follow thine.
- ↑ She did not see him for four weeks previous to his death.
