And laid it in the tomb.

"Long, long we nursed his fading form,
And strove to shun the gath'ring storm,
Which threaten'd in the sky;
Yet from our bleeding bosoms torn,
Our darling son leaves us to mourn;
Who can his place supply?"

But could their vision now extend
To those bright realms where dwells their friend,
Their tears would cease to flow;
They'd long to leave this dusky sphere,
And from their lips we soon should hear,
"Dear Savior, let me go."

No more they'd wish the seraph here,
To wander in this vale so drear,
And lay his glory by;
To suffer years of grief and pain,
And cross cold Jordan's stream again,
To reach the joys on high.




THE SISTER'S LAMENT

LINES SUGGESTED BY THE DEATH OF E. TORRY, OF PORTLAND