54
POEMS.
Though others may wound with piercing keen dart,
Your love pours a balm o'er the wounds of the heart.
In the lone hours of the night I awake with the smart,—
Tears flow from my eyes from the grief of my heart.
Your love pours a balm o'er the wounds of the heart.
In the lone hours of the night I awake with the smart,—
Tears flow from my eyes from the grief of my heart.
Then I arise from my bed and think my life o'er,
And write to my darlings ere on earth I'm no more.
That dear ones may read long after I depart,
I love and forgive them though broken my heart.
And write to my darlings ere on earth I'm no more.
That dear ones may read long after I depart,
I love and forgive them though broken my heart.
In years that will follow, when little ones are press'd,
If God should give them on her bosom to rest,
Should they cause thee sorrow, fill thy heart with grief,
And find nothing on earth can bring thee relief,—
If God should give them on her bosom to rest,
Should they cause thee sorrow, fill thy heart with grief,
And find nothing on earth can bring thee relief,—
