as the gentlest summer sigh,
When scarce one trembling leaf is stirr'd
My sinking pulses faint and die."

And so death rested on her cheek,--
Lingering in "strange beauty there;"
That seraph smile a rapture speaks--
That earthly pleasures may not share.

Lines, Written in a Sick-Room, April 15, 1855.

O, fold my flowing curtains by,
I fain would catch the breath of spring,
And breathe its gentle, balmy sigh,
As soft it floats on silken wing.

Lightly it fans my pallid cheek,
And cools the fever of my brow,
And seems of coming health to speak,
As soft it murmurs round me now.

Oh, there are those in life's young morn,
Who, gazing forth with earnest eye,
Feel that spring's joyous, glad return,
Brings but to them the time to die.

While I, a pilgrim, worn and gray,
Wearied with care, still linger on,
Life's path to tread, one little day,
Before the feverish race is run.

On the great battle-field of life,
The warp of destiny is spread,
And countless millions in the strife,
Supply the woof with varied thread.

O, there are some, with hearts of truth,
With courage bold, and daring high,
Whose texture scarce from early youth,
Presents one blemish to the eye.

And there are those all steeped in crime,
Whose fabric is one constant stain;
Who fill up their appointed time,
With conduct vile, and lips profane.

There are bright streaks of glowing hope,
And blackened shades of deep despair,--
All smiles of joy, all tears of grief,
Like rainbow dyes are blended there.

Repentance, with her bitter tears,
Would wash some dismal crime away;
And Terror, arm'd with many fears,
Stands pointing to a future day.

And Happiness, with sunny smile,
Weaves in her roses, rich and rare,
Love, Constancy and Truth, we find,
And trusting Faith, with humble prayer.

Vain were the effort to portray
The varied shades life's scenes present;
But oh, how swift the shuttles play,
By every thought or action sent.

And so each one is weaving fast
His little web of human life;--
Happy those, who find at last,
They have conquered in the strife.

It matters not how short the warp,
If to the goal the object tend,
For, oh, we know, "That life is long
That answers life's great end."

Lines, Written in a Sick Room, July 20th, 1855.

Th