Louisa! dost thou hear in heaven
Thy brother's prayer address'd to thee?
Oh, are thy suppliant efforts given
Before th' Eternal throne for me?
Could I be sure we yet will meet,
When in the grave this frame shall rest.
My heart would not with anguish beat,
As now, within this aching breast.
When thou wert on a bed of pain,
And death was darkening o'er thy brow,
Then rose that fever of the brain—
I felt it then—I feel it now—
The deep, the voiceless grief that wastes
The heart by slow but sure decay;
Which nothing stays, nor nothing hastes,
No time can quench, no scene allay.
Oh! o'er my soul what horror came—
Can I forget that moment?—never!
When thou didst strive to call my name,
And found thy voice was hush'd forever!
A crowd of friends were gather'd round thee,
And tears burst forth from every eye,
Despite their efforts not to wound thee—
But thou wert not afraid to die!
Life was to thee a wilderness,
By not one ray of comfort lighted:
The past presented but distress;
The future seem'd as drear and blighted:
Long years of wo had worn thy form;
Thy path had been a cheerless one,
Devoid of flowers, clad in storm—
Thou well might'st wish thy journey done.
Those infant germs, that in thy bosom
Awoke the mother's anxious sigh,
Were doomed to fall in early blossom—
Thy aching eyes beheld them die!
Upon thy name there was no stain,
Nor aught in death to cause a fear;
Dark portal from a world of pain,
To heaven's eternal, happy sphere.
I gazed upon thy mute, pale lip,
As vainly thou didst strive to speak;
I wept not then—I could not weep—
But oh! I thought my heart would break!
The hue of death stole slowly o'er thee,
Its glassy light was in thine eye—
From the sad scene at length I tore me,
I could not bear to see thee die!
Though thou art now in yon blue heaven,
A bright one in a world of bliss,
Yet still with grief my heart is riven—
Thou'st left an aching void in this.
I cannot wish thee back to earth
To heave its sigh, and shed its tear—
But I who knew, and lov'd thy worth,
Must mourn the waste that's left me here.
High on the Alps where now I stand,
I turn my eyes across the wave,
In fancy view my native land,
In fancy visit thy lone grave:
Thy form decays beneath the sod,
By prairie wild-flowers sweetly drest—
Thy soul is with its Maker, God ,
In yon pure realm forever blest!
Thy brother's prayer address'd to thee?
Oh, are thy suppliant efforts given
Before th' Eternal throne for me?
Could I be sure we yet will meet,
When in the grave this frame shall rest.
My heart would not with anguish beat,
As now, within this aching breast.
When thou wert on a bed of pain,
And death was darkening o'er thy brow,
Then rose that fever of the brain—
I felt it then—I feel it now—
The deep, the voiceless grief that wastes
The heart by slow but sure decay;
Which nothing stays, nor nothing hastes,
No time can quench, no scene allay.
Oh! o'er my soul what horror came—
Can I forget that moment?—never!
When thou didst strive to call my name,
And found thy voice was hush'd forever!
A crowd of friends were gather'd round thee,
And tears burst forth from every eye,
Despite their efforts not to wound thee—
But thou wert not afraid to die!
Life was to thee a wilderness,
By not one ray of comfort lighted:
The past presented but distress;
The future seem'd as drear and blighted:
Long years of wo had worn thy form;
Thy path had been a cheerless one,
Devoid of flowers, clad in storm—
Thou well might'st wish thy journey done.
Those infant germs, that in thy bosom
Awoke the mother's anxious sigh,
Were doomed to fall in early blossom—
Thy aching eyes beheld them die!
Upon thy name there was no stain,
Nor aught in death to cause a fear;
Dark portal from a world of pain,
To heaven's eternal, happy sphere.
I gazed upon thy mute, pale lip,
As vainly thou didst strive to speak;
I wept not then—I could not weep—
But oh! I thought my heart would break!
The hue of death stole slowly o'er thee,
Its glassy light was in thine eye—
From the sad scene at length I tore me,
I could not bear to see thee die!
Though thou art now in yon blue heaven,
A bright one in a world of bliss,
Yet still with grief my heart is riven—
Thou'st left an aching void in this.
I cannot wish thee back to earth
To heave its sigh, and shed its tear—
But I who knew, and lov'd thy worth,
Must mourn the waste that's left me here.
High on the Alps where now I stand,
I turn my eyes across the wave,
In fancy view my native land,
In fancy visit thy lone grave:
Thy form decays beneath the sod,
By prairie wild-flowers sweetly drest—
Thy soul is with its Maker, God ,
In yon pure realm forever blest!