"I think you are very, very ill to-night, my dear."
"Send for my sister. My feet are so cold! Lift me up."
Her sister entering as they raised her, she said, "It has come at last!" and, with a bright and happy smile, looked upward, and departed.
Well had she written,—
"Why shouldst thou fear the beautiful angel, Death,
Who waits thee at the portals of the skies,
Ready to kiss away thy struggling breath,
Ready with gentle hand to close thine eyes?
Oh, what were life, if life were all? Thine eyes
Are blinded by their tears, or thou wouldst see
Thy treasures wait thee in the far-off skies,
And Death, thy friend, will give them all to thee."
BEYOND.
From her own fair dominions,
Long since, with shorn pinions,
My spirit was banished:
But above her still hover, in vigils and dreams,
Ethereal visitants, voices, and gleams,
That forever remind her
Of something behind her
Long vanished.