Thou art, ('t was all thy wish,) thou art gone home.1
Ours are the loss, and agonizing grief,
The slow, dead hours, the sighs without relief,
The lingering nights, the thoughts of pleasure past,
Memory, that wounds, and darkens, to the last.
How desolate the space, how deep the line,
That part our hopes, our fates, our paths, from thine
We tread with faltering steps the shadowy shore;
Thou art at rest, where storms can vex no more.
When shall we meet again, and kiss away
The tears of joy in one eternal day?
Most lovely thou! in beauty's rarest truth!
A cherub's face; the breathing blush of youth;
A smile more sweet than seemed to mortal given;
An eye that spoke, and beamed the light of heaven;
A temper, like the balmy summer sky,
That soothes, and warms, and cheers, when life beats high;
A bounding spirit, which, in sportive chase,
Gave, as it moved, a fresh and varying grace;
A voice, whose music warbled notes of mirth,
Its tones unearthly, or scarce formed for earth;
A mind, which kindled with each passing thought,
And gathered treasures, when they least were sought;--
These were thy bright attractions; these had power
To spread a nameless charm o'er every hour.
But that, which, more than all, could bliss impart,
Was thy warm love, thy tender, buoyant heart,
Thy ceaseless flow of feeling, like the rill,
That fills its sunny banks, and deepens still.
Thy chief delight to fix thy parents' gaze,
Win their fond kiss, or gain their modest praise.
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1 The last words, uttered but a few moments before her death, were, “I want to go home.”
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