58
ON THE DEATH OF A SISTER.
Sister!—toils and ills
Henceforth are past, for knowledge without pain,
A free, translucent, everlasting tide,
Doth fill thy spirit. Thou no more hast need
Of man's protecting arm,—for thou may'st lean
On His unchanging throne, who was thy trust
Even from thine early days. 'Tis well! 'Tis well!
Saviour of souls!—I thank thee for her bliss.
