Fanny Forester

A thousand sweet ties bind her here, —
O friend! thy fears are vain!
The blessed angels will not break
So soon this golden chain;
And God, our God, who loveth her,
Shall breathe on her again!

The languor of her step shall yet
With winter snows depart;
Her feet shall spring o'er carpets wrought
By Flora's loving art,
And keep time to the joyous beat
Of her exulting heart!

Spring flowers, — they must, to one like her,
Bring life in their perfume;
Though lilies mind us of the young,
Pale bending to the tomb,
She shall tread among the violets
Before the lilies bloom!

Yes, when the summer roses blush,
Her cheek shall catch their glow;
And when the summer birds return,
Her tones, no longer low,
Shall, like their strains, on raptured ears
In waves of music flow.

Our souls' arms are around her thrown!
She must not pass away
Now, when, too humble for the proud,
Too lonely for the gay,
The altar of sweet Poesy
Is falling to decay!

O, there may we behold her yet
In her young beauty bow!
There may we hear her glad lip breathe
Her consecration vow,
Earth's warm life lighting up her eye, —
Its glory on her brow!

There long a priestess may she serve,
With vestments pure and fair,
There offer up her wingèd dreams,
Young doves from heaven's own air,
And pour the rich wine of her soul
As a libation there!