Classic Poem

When the Sabbath was declining, just at twilight's mystic hour,
Left the " Upper Courts " an angel, sent to cull our sweetest flower,
Not in judgment, not in anger, did this white-winged seraph come,
But to lead a little Pilgrim through Death's Portal to her home.

And our angel child was ready, aye, and anxious to depart —
Not the slightest doubt o'ershadowed her trusting little heart;
But with a brow as radiant as rainbow in the sky,
She whispered softly " Mother, I'm not afraid to die. "

When shall these little, weary limbs lie down to sweet repose,
'Mid the green, the verdant pastures where the limpid water flows;
When shall I the Golden City sparkling in its beauty see,
" When shall it be, my Saviour, O! when shall I be free? "

Ere the week-day with its labors, its duties and its care —
Was ushered in, our darling was found on earth no where;
But with the saints in glory, and the Saviour she adored,
She's happy and at rest, for aye and ever with the Lord.