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TO MRS. LUCIA STRATTON. 357
My heart goes with thee, for I know thy feet
A path of thorns must tread; Sickness and care thou wilt be call'd to meet—
Perchance the sainted dead.
My heart goes with thee, for my weeping eyes
Covet that great reward Which waits the Christian pilgrim in the skies
Who suffers for her Lord.
O ! what a promise, thou, my sister, hast!
Unto thy faith is given A hundredfold pn earth, and then, at last,
Eternal life in heaven.
Thy home is left: thy sisters are behind—
Their hearts are fill'd with woe ! Thou'rt parted from those brothers fondly kind,
To meet no more below.
Thou hast left friends: thy widow'd father's tears Stream'd down his furrow'd cheek; His whole frame shook with overwhelming
He had no power to speak!
He saw thy mother's image in his child:
Thy mother left him first! She for the grave—THEu for the distant wild,— ■
And now the strong heart burst!