SHE is not gone;—still in our sight |
| That dearest maid shall live, |
| In form as true, in tints as bright, |
| As youth and health could give. |
Still, still is ours the modest eye; |
| The smile unwrought by art; |
| The glance that shot so piercingly |
| Affection's keenest dart; |
The thrilling voice, I ne'er could hear |
| But felt a joy and pain;— |
| A pride that she was ours, a fear |
| Ours she might not remain; {30} |
Whether the page divine call'd forth |
| Its clear sweet, tranquil tone, |
| Or cheerful hymn, or seemly mirth |
| In sprightlier measure shown; |
The meek inquiry of that face, |
| Musing on wonders found, |
| As 'mid dim paths she sought to trace |
| The truth on sacred ground; |
The thankful sigh that would arise, |
| When aught her doubts removed, |
| Full sure the explaining voice to prize, |
| Admiring while she loved; |
The pensive brow, the world might see |
| When she in crowds was found; |
| The burst of heart, the o'erflowing glee |
| When only friends were round; |
Hope's warmth of promise, prompt to fill |
| The thoughts with good in store, |
| Match'd with content's deep stream, which still |
| Flow'd on, when hope was o'er; {31} |
That peace, which, with its own bright day, |
| Made cheapest sights shine fair; |
| That purest grace, which track'd its way |
| Safe from aught earthly there. |
Such was she in the sudden hour |
| That brought her Maker's call,— |
| Proving her heart's self-mastering power |
| Blithely to part with all,— |
All her eye loved, all her hand press'd |
| With keen affection's glow, |
| The voice of home, all pleasures best, |
| All dearest thoughts below. |
From friend-lit hearth, from social board, |
| All duteously she rose; |
| For faith upon the Master's word |
| Can find a sure repose. |
And in her wonder up she sped, |
| And tried relief in vain; |
| Then laid her down upon her bed |
| Of languor and of pain,— {32} |
And waited till the solemn spell, |
| (A ling'ring night and day,) |
| Should fill its numbers, and compel |
| Her soul to come away. |
Such was she then; and such she is, |
| Shrined in each mourner's breast; |
| Such shall she be, and more than this, |
| In promised glory blest; |
When in due lines her Saviour dear |
| His scatter'd saints shall range, |
| And knit in love souls parted here, |
| Where cloud is none, nor change. |
Oxford.
August, 1828. |