191
No sister's voice can wake the stillness there.
Nor bring the red- rose to that cheek again!
Nor wake those smiles—nor bow that lovely head
To meet your soft embraces—she is dead!
Nor bring the red- rose to that cheek again!
Nor wake those smiles—nor bow that lovely head
To meet your soft embraces—she is dead!
Away! bear back your buds and blossoms fair—
Break not the stillness of that awful room!
Your cheerful tones awake no echo there—
Would that your glee could gladden up its gloom.
But 't is in vain—Death shadows o'er the spot—
Bear back your buds and flowers—she heeds them not!
Break not the stillness of that awful room!
Your cheerful tones awake no echo there—
Would that your glee could gladden up its gloom.
But 't is in vain—Death shadows o'er the spot—
Bear back your buds and flowers—she heeds them not!
But for the spell that now her fair form cumbers,
Soon had she flown your fairy forms to meet;
But Death o'ertook her in her rosy slumbers,
And hushed her answering voice—and chained her feet!
And now with moveless lips and closed eyes,
Pale on her couch your darling sister lies.
Soon had she flown your fairy forms to meet;
But Death o'ertook her in her rosy slumbers,
And hushed her answering voice—and chained her feet!
And now with moveless lips and closed eyes,
Pale on her couch your darling sister lies.
Alas, that lovely sister! Yesternight
She moved the fairest 'mid the festive throng,
With step so joyous, and with voice so light,
That Music's self seemed discord to its song.
Fair, and exulting in youth's fleeting breath,
How long to her seemed life—how distant Death!
She moved the fairest 'mid the festive throng,
With step so joyous, and with voice so light,
That Music's self seemed discord to its song.
Fair, and exulting in youth's fleeting breath,
How long to her seemed life—how distant Death!
And when upon her pillow soft and still,
With her blue eye fixed on the moon's pale beams,
Guileless of heart, and thinking of no ill,
And gliding off, so sweetly, to her dreams—
With her blue eye fixed on the moon's pale beams,
Guileless of heart, and thinking of no ill,
And gliding off, so sweetly, to her dreams—
