THE LAST WORD OF THE DYING.
A christian friend, in the last moments of life, when it was supposed all communication with mortals had ceased—spelt, with her fingers, in the dialect of the deaf and dumb, the word—"Mother."
'Tis o'er!—'Tis o'er!
That lip of gentle tone
Doth speak to man no more;
It hath given the parting kiss
To him with whom was learned to prove
The climax of terrestial bliss,
Deep, and confiding love;
It hath sighed its last bequest
On the weeping sister's breast,
Its work is done.
The soul doth wait for thee,
Redeemer!—strong to save
Thy ransomed from the grave,
It waiteth to be free.
Still, on the darkened eye
It lingereth, wishful to convey
One message more, to frail mortality,
Then soar away.
There is no breath to speak,
No life-blood in the cheek,
Listening Love doth strive in vain
Those pearls of thought to gain,
