The golden sun was sinking Behind the western hill, Wearing a smiling, cheerful face, And knowing nought of ill. It shed its lustrous beauty Over a maiden fair, And reflected on the roses. That were fading in her hair. She was lying on a snow-white couch, With short and quivering breath, And weeping friends had gathered round To await the angel Death. She raised her pale and dying hand; A smile beamed o'er her face; "Dear friends, I leave you now," she said; "In heaven there's 'perfect pence;' The golden gates wide open are; I see a heavenly light, And fairy bells are ringing clear: O! 'tis a blissful sight. Methinks I hear the music sweet Of angels drawing near; They are calling, they are whispering— Sister Edith, come up here!" She turned her eyes on all around; A smile played o'er her face; "I'm almost home," she faintly said, "Nearing to perfect peace." A heavenly light filled all the room, Rustling of wings was heard, And angel voices filled the air, Sweeter than that of bird. We raised our darling Edith's form; We moved her weary head; We called her name in loving tones,— But she, our child, was dead. So gently had she plumed her flight, We could but think her here, Still twining with her pale, meek hands The roses in her hair. A smile still played about her lips; 'Her eyes were sparkling, too, And fragrant flowers on her breast But 'neath their weight of dew. Our darling's form we robed at last, And laid her down to sleep, Then turned away with silent tread; Our eyes refused to weep.
