Methinks, the brightly opening eye
Doth search for something gone.
Yon slumberer 'mid the snowy flowers,
With young, unfrosted hair,
Awakes not at the mournful sound
Of bird-like voices murmuring round
"Why sleeps our Mother there?"
Hers was that sunshine of the heart,
Which Home's fair region cheer'd,
Hers the upright, unselfish aim,