Then drop the curtain, fold by fold,
O'er her consecrated bower;
And veil from curious eyes, and cold,
Your dead, yet living flower."
Affectionately, your
Father.
Hope.
A little skiff on time's dark stream,
With silken sail and golden oar,
Is floating like a fairy dream,
And pointing to some distant shore,
Where brighter bloom more fragrant flow'rs,
Perfuming amaranthine bow'rs.
The oar that dips the sullen wave,
Throws up some diamond rich and rare,
Striving the sinking soul to save,
From the dark shadows of despair;
And though the night be e'er so dark,
Light hovers o'er this little bark.
'Tis Hope unfurls that silken sail,
And dips her oar in life's deep tide;
And dancing on before the gale,
Throws sparkling diamonds far and wide,
And paints in brilliant rainbow dyes,
Onward to some radiant prize.
Visit to Mount Auburn.
It was a beautiful day in autumn, when the mellow sun shed his
subduing rays Over the face of decaying nature, that we entered the
elegant carriage of an esteemed friend, and pursued our way towards
Mount Auburn, that quiet resting place of the dead.
As we pursued our way from East Boston, the water in the harbor,
whitened with many a sail, sparkled in the morning sun, and glittered
like ten thousand diamonds.
It was Saturday, busy, bustling Saturday, when all the world seemed
hurrying on as if to make amends for any deficiency in the other days
of the week.
Pages:
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291