On the death of a sister.
I saw the dread destroyer win his way.
That hollow cough first rang the fatal knell,
As on my ear its prophet-warning fell;
Feeble and slow thy once light footstep grew,
Thy wasting cheek put on death's pallid hue,
Thy thin, hot hand to mine more weakly clung,
Each sweet “ Good night,” fell fainter from thy tongue;
I knew that we must part — no power could save
Thy quiet goodness from an early grave;
Those eyes so dull, though kind each glance they cast,
Looking a sister's fondness to the last;
Those lips so pale, that gently pressed my cheek,
That voice-alas! thou couldst but try to speak;
All told thy doom, I felt it at my heart,
The shaft had struck — I knew that we must part.
And we have parted, Mary-thou art gone!
Gone in thine innocence, meek-suffering one.