No death is there, nor sorrow there,
E’er to disturb the heavenly bliss,
For death, sin, hell, and sorrow are,
Entirely lost in the abyss.
With wintry storms the ground ne’er pines
Clothed in eternal bloom, mamma;
For there the sun of glory shines,
And all the just with him, mamma.
I saw my sister Anna there,
A virgin in her youthful prime;
More than on earth her features fair,
And like the holy angels’ fine.
Her robe was all a flowing stream
Of silver dipt in light, mamma,
But ah! it ’woke me from my dream,
It shone so strong and bright, mamma.
With this specimen of David’s poetical faculties, I leave him to the kind consideration of the well disposed.
January, 1826.
M. T.