And life is short, at best, and time
Must soon prepare the tomb;
And there is sure a happier clime
Beyond this world of gloom.
And should it be my happy lot,
After a life of care and pain,
In sadness spent, or spent in vain,
To go where sighs and sin are not,
'Twill make the half my heaven to be,
My mother, evermore with thee.
[Footnote 81: Born in Maine, but lived at the West; was editor of a
religions newspaper, which early assailed slavery as wrong; lost his
life in defending his press against a mob at Alton, Illinois, July,
1836.]
* * * * *
=_Edward Coate Pinkney, 1802-1828_.= (Manual, p. 521.)
=356=. A HEALTH.
I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness alone;
A woman, of her gentle sex the seeming paragon,
To whom the better elements and kindly stars have given
A form so fair, that, like the air, 'tis less of earth than heaven.
Her every tone is music's own, like those of morning birds;
And something more than melody dwells ever in her words.
The coinage of her heart are they, and from her lips each flows,
As one may see the burdened bee forth issue from the rose.
Affections are as thoughts to her, the measures of her hours;
Her feelings have the fragrance and the freshness of young flowers;
And lovely passions, changing oft, so fill her, she appears
The image of themselves by turns, the idol of past years.
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