A Picture

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;

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;

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—

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.