70
poems.
Deep, wondrous thoughts possess my secret soul,—
Thoughts to which words could give no utterance,
So strange, yet holy, is the strain they breathe.
True as the voice of sacred prophecy,
Comes to my mind, the sweet, assuring thought,
That I but leave my father's fond embrace,
For some bright realm where we may live and love,
When this fair earth shall yield us no abode,
And I may be the unseen messenger
To waft thy soul to that most blessed home.
Calmly I leave thee for a few short years;
And, O! it is a soothing thought to me
In my last hour of life, that thou hast gained
O'er our proud foe the glorious victory."
Thoughts to which words could give no utterance,
So strange, yet holy, is the strain they breathe.
True as the voice of sacred prophecy,
Comes to my mind, the sweet, assuring thought,
That I but leave my father's fond embrace,
For some bright realm where we may live and love,
When this fair earth shall yield us no abode,
And I may be the unseen messenger
To waft thy soul to that most blessed home.
Calmly I leave thee for a few short years;
And, O! it is a soothing thought to me
In my last hour of life, that thou hast gained
O'er our proud foe the glorious victory."
No tear bedimmed the lustre of her eye;
Her cheek was bright as in its happiest hour.
Her lips were parted in a gentle smile,
That told her willingness to die for him
From whom, at first, she drew the springs of life.
Her cheek was bright as in its happiest hour.
Her lips were parted in a gentle smile,
That told her willingness to die for him
From whom, at first, she drew the springs of life.
