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Again, the mother lingers, not altogether with pain, upon the memory of the daughter that left her at life's noon.
Years afterward she writes:—
My tryst was held beside your bed—
A radiant shawl of India's loom,
That seemed to brighten all the room,
A loving hand had o'er you spread;
The sunset through the casement streamed,
And lay upon your placid face,
Still wearing all its living grace,
And smile that almost living seemed,
And children shyly came to fill
Your hands with morning-glories fair,
Low whispering, as they smoothed your hair,
“Our dearest is so very still!”
No strange, cold dread their bosoms knew
To overawe the love which led
Their little feet to climb your bed,
That they might closer come to you!
Dear scene!
It lives before me yet!
Alas for them whose memories keep
Of their beloved when they sleep
No picture they would ne'er forget!
One other extract may be given, to show the essentially religious tendency of
Mrs. Sawyer's mind.
Toward the close of her life, the retrospect seemed to her to detect too little harvested in the fields of God.
Yet will the reaper not despair.
The night draws near, and I have not compassed
The task by the Gracious Master set;
Ever and ever by incompleteness
My efforts all have been sore beset.
