And the mourner will sweetly obey.
There had whisper’d a voice—’twas the voice of her God,
“I love thee—I love thee—pass under the rod!”
I saw the fond brother, with glances of love,
Gazing down on a gentle young girl,
And she hung on his arm, and breath’d soft in his ear,
As he play’d with each graceful curl.
O, he loved the sweet tones of her silvery voice,
Let her use it in sadness or glee;
And he’d clasp his brave arms round her delicate form,