Almira

       They tell me thou art dying—
Though when I saw thee last, life’s crimson glow
Brightened thy cheek, and on thine eloquent brow
       Beauty and health sat throned, as if defying
Death and his ally, Time. Wo! that for thee,
Bright one, and loved too well! an early shroud should be!

       Wo! that with all thy gifts,
And with Life’s pathways bright before thou yet,
Thou shoulds’t depart—thy sun at noon-day set
       Darkly and lone, where Morning never lifts
Her radiant light, nor voice of breeze or bird
By the still, pathless sleeper of the tomb is heard.

       That thou should’st perish! thou!
Whose step was like the fawn’s upon the hills,
When the young Eve her earliest dew distils,
       And her first star gleams coyly on her brow:
Death for the aged—for the worn with care—
But thou art for the grave too exquisitely fair!

       Too fair!—alas, sweet Friend!
Thy cheek is faded, and thine eye is dim—
Death claims thee for his own—and what to him
       Are youth and beauty? These must have an end;
Time will not spare, and Sickness, in a day,
Bears glow, and light, and lustre all away.

       Yet must I think of thee,
Oh gentlest! as I knew thee well and long—
A young, glad creature, with a lip of song,
       An eye of radiance and a soul of glee—
Singing sweet snatches of some favorite tune,
Or wandering by my side beneath the sky of June.

       Unto the stricken heart
Thy coming step was music, and thy voice
Bade the desponding soul again rejoice:
       Thine was the power, sweet Friend! to cure the smart
Of Sorrow’s wounds, and with the healing balm
Of sympathy, heart-felt, the anguished soul to calm!

       And blessing, thou wert blest—
Joy poured for thee her song for ever new,
Friends were around thy path—the tried—the true—
       And peace and quietness were in thy breast,
And Love—how thrilled thy heart to his sweet tone,
When at the altar’s side he claimed thee as his own!

       But this is of the past—
Wo! that the scene should change! What art thou now,
With thy pale, quivering lip, and marble brow,
       And thy strange, spiritual beauty, cast
Around thee like a mantle? Death is strong,
And terrible in his strength—for earth thou are not long.

       The cold, insensate grave
Shall claim thee as its own!—the grave?—alas!
That the too fondly worshipped thus should pass!
       Hath not the healer skill and power to save?
Dark, doubly dark to us be earth’s gloom.
Oh, faithful Heart and true! when thou art in the tomb!