Into sweet sounds, and leaves and blossoms wake:
Is it not brighter, then, in that far clime
Where graves are not, nor blights of changeful time,
If here such glory dwell with passing blooms,
Such golden sunshine rest around the tombs?
So thought the dying one. ’Twas early day,
And sounds and odours, with the breezes’ play
Whispering of spring-time, through the cabin door,
Unto her couch life’s farewell sweetness bore.
Then with a look where all her hope awoke,