Magnolia leaves / Mary Weston Fordham [electronic text]

THE DYING GIRL.

Sister darling, ope the window, let the balmy air once more Fan my flushed and throbbing brow as in the happy days of yore; I would gaze again in rapture on the brightly setting sun For I know, my gentle sister, that the goal is almost won.

See the crimson clouds are hov'ring round the glorious orb of day, And the far-off hills are basking in its golden, garnished ray; Listen to yon forest warbler hymning sweet and joyous lay, Chanting forth its evening vespers to the sinking god of day.

But sister, time is waning, after all it doth but seem That life is but a toilsome march, a weariness, a dream; And yet I do not murmur, for if all the joys of earth Had not faded from my vision ere they ripened into birth,

If the shadows had not thickened as they clustered round my brow, Had I not turned from the altar, where I worshipped long ago, Perchance I might have reveled full too deep in human love, And forgotten God, my Maker, and my happy home above.

So 'tis well, and now I'm going to join that spirit band, With their never-ceasing music, making glad that starry land; And I'm glad too, for I'm weary, and would rest me from my woe— Fain would land my stricken spirit on the banks of "Evermore."

And O! my dearly loved one, when sorrows round thee press, Hurling each deadly missile on thy pure and youthful breast— Then think upon thy dear one, O! may ne'er thy foot steps rove! But meet me, surely meet me, in that happy home above.