The lock of hair

Not the white cov'ring that bespoke
The shroud that wraps her youthful form;
Not the black seal, as slow it broke;
Nor the round tear-drop, quick and warm;

Not these, could that bright lock disguise;
For well I knew it, through them all:
While her glad spirit, from the skies,
Seemed asking, why that tear should fall.

For she, upon whose placid brow
The precious gift so lately shone,
Is crowned with life, an angel now,
In glory near her Maker's throne.

Rejoined to friends, who went before
To lure her to a world of bliss,
She fondly bends, and watches o'er
The loved ones she has left in this.

She points them to the blessed beam
Of that great Sun, whose cheering light
Shone o'er the tide of death's cold stream,
And then dissolved her faith in sight!

The well-known lock of auburn hair,
That once was her's—that now is mine,
Will oft to pensive memory bear
The lovely, sainted CAROLINE.