Not hearing on the winds the passing knell!
Till ah! one morn, thy throbbing heart grew chill,
And from thy pale lip faintly came the breath;
We saw thee slumbering beautiful and still,
And knew it was the dreamless sleep of death!
Through the “dark valley,” and the “shadows” dim,
Thy Father’s “rod and staff” did comfort thee!
Meekly didst thou repose thy trust in Him,
And launch thy frail bark on Eternity!
Could some bright spirit, from a distant sphere,