ON J. S., WHO DIED OF CONSUMPTION.
I stood beside the couch of one,
Whose quick and fevered breath
Conveyed what wan disease had done—
The work was thine, O death!
Whose quick and fevered breath
Conveyed what wan disease had done—
The work was thine, O death!
Few months ago, in life's young bloom,
She dreamt not of thy power,
Nor deemed the dark and dreary tomb
So soon should o'er her lower.
She dreamt not of thy power,
Nor deemed the dark and dreary tomb
So soon should o'er her lower.
Thy hand, O death! may chill life's frame,
It cannot chain the soul,
Which, soaring with ethereal flame,
Mounts to a heavenly goal.
It cannot chain the soul,
Which, soaring with ethereal flame,
Mounts to a heavenly goal.
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