But suddenly, a careless tone,
Or word in harshness spoken,
Recalls the wand'ring spirit home,
And the spell is rudely broken.
And then a sad, lone feeling steals
Upon the weary heart,
And amid the gloom we only feel
A longing to depart.
A longing to depart and be
Amid the angel choir,
Where perfect love and sympathy
Shall tune each heart and lyre.
Lines, Written on the Death of a Friend.
Oh, who would check the starting tear,
Or who suppress the rising sigh,
When those we fondly cherished here,
In early youth are called to die?
Such was thy fate, my early friend,
Thus snatch'd away in beauty's bloom;
No aid that earthly love might lend,
Could save thee, dear one, from the tomb.
I call to mind thy greetings warm,
Thy gentle smile, thy winning grace,
And weep that now thy fragile form,
Lies cold and still in Death's embrace.
But though I miss thy winning smile,
And the sweet music of thy voice,
That could my weary heart beguile;
Yet I, amid my tears, rejoice,
That thou, thus early, didst depart:
When all around was fair and bright:
Ere yet thy fond, confiding heart
Had felt of earthly woe the blight.
For it is sweeter, far, to die
When the young heart with hope is fill'd,
Than live o'er ruined hopes, to sigh
When cold distrust that heart has chill'd.
Who would not rather pass away
From earth, like some sweet summer flow'r,
When the soft murmuring zephyrs play.
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