And of her power to make a home so fair,
That those who shared its sanctities deplore
The pattern lost forever.
Many a friend,
And none who won that title laid it down,
Muse on the tablet that she left behind,
Muse,—and give thanks to God for what she was,
And what she is;—for every pain hath fled
That with a barb'd and subtle weapon stood
Between the pilgrim and the promised Land.