But youth has magic potence still
To turn to gladness every ill;
And hope shall be to thee a light
That, clouded oft, yet knows not night;
And brother's love shall still be nigh
To watch thee with unsleeping eye;
And He whose mercies are above
The tenderness of human love,
Shall steer thee safe thro' doubt and woe,
And send thee joy when none can know.
Then fare thee well, our Emily,
And prosperous may thy sojourn be!
Farewell-until the time shall come
That brings the dear-loved exile home;
When Love the happy tears shall dry,
Which fill that sweet and serious eye;
When all those now forsaken here
Shall seem, by absence, doubly dear,
And thy full spirit sink to rest
Upon thy home's beloved breast!
FILL high the cup of memory!
To her the faithful and the kind,
Who sleeps beside the western sea,
The fair of eye, the wise of mind,
Who walked, in self-forgetful love,
wild of grief and care;
Our type of peace, our household dove,
Gliding among us with still feet,
Breathing o'er all our hearts the air
Of her own spirit calm and sweet;
Made strong in meekness from above,
To help, to comfort, to endure;
And now hath found her home on high
Among the gentle and the pure:
Fill high the cup to Emily!
THOU hast left us, dearest Spirit, and left us all alone,
But thou thyself to glory and liberty art flown;
And the song that tells thy virtues, and mourns thy
early doom,
Should be gentle as thy happy death, and peaceful as thy tomb.
Thy place no longer knows thee beside the household
We miss thee in our hour of woe, we miss thee in our
But the thought that thou wert one of us—
Is more than we would part with for fortune or for
Thy dying gift of love, 'twas a light and slender token, And thy parting words of comfort were few and faintly
But memory must forsake us, and life itself decay, Ere those gifts shall lie forgotten, or those accents pass away.
Farewell, our best and fairest! a long, a proud fare
May those who love thee follow to the place where thou dost dwell
Like the lovely star that led from far the wanderers to their God,
May'st thou guide us in the pathway which thy feet in beauty trod.
SHE sang-perchance to wile the hours,
Or exercise her fairy powers;
She sang-I sat in silence by,
And listen'd to her minstrelsy.
I ask'd her not to wake the note
Which I lov'd best, because I thought
Choice and fore-purpose would destroy,
Or mar at least, the freeborn joy;
Therefore I sate in silence by,
And listen'd to her minstrelsy.
I took it, as a sweet thing sent
By nature, a stray gift, not meant
For me, yet in fruition
To all intents and ends my own;
And listen'd to it, e'en as I
Would to the chance-heard melody
Of the stock-dove from his bower,
Or lark from her aërial tour.
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