Then closes up its sweetness, and passes thus away?

How still she lies! her ringlets droop, of pale and soft brown hair--
Parted upon her marble brow, they fall neglected there;
Her cold hands folded on her breast, her round arms by her side--
How sad all hearts that knew her well that she so soon has died!

How she is missed from out each spot where she so late has been;
Her silent chamber thrills the heart with keenest throbs of pain;
Her music, too, of voice and string seems ling'ring on the ear,
Only to fill the heart with woe that its sound ye cannot hear.

How long life looked to her; its far and distant day
Seemed like the rosy path she trod, and perfumed all the way;
No tear but those for others' woe had ever dimmed her eye,
For her youth was cloudless as the morn, and bright as noonday sky.

But ah! how soon the light is quenched that shone so sweetly here--
And oh! if love to God was hers, it glows in a brighter sphere!
That strange, mysterious spark of mind, shrined in the frailest clay,
Now flames amid the seraph band in a "house" that will not decay.

This world we know is full of tombs, covered with fairest flowers;
But yet how soon we all forget, and think them _rosy bowers_!
We build our hopes of pleasure here, select a fairy spot;
But Death soon proves to our pierced souls that he has not forgot!

Oh! wisely, wisely let us learn that this earth is not our home;
'Tis but the trial-place of life--a race that's swiftly run:--
Our precious hours are links of gold in that mysterious chain,