|Share page||Visit Us On FB|
This image pass'd from that fond father's eye,
And swelling tears were vain; His grief—his love—which rose convulsive, high,
Could not thy footsteps chain!
'Tis well, my sister, that thy mother's heart
Had then grown still and cold ; Else her sad tears had made it worse to part,—
Perhaps thy course controll'd!
But now she sees not as we mortals see—
All mists are pass'd away ; Doubtless her soul doth now rejoice with thee,
Along thy toilsome way!
My heart goes with thee, though the world despise
The offering thou hast made,— The Lord shall give thee, for thy sacrifice,
A crown that cannot fade !
AdieUj my sister! Though beneath the sky
Our intercourse is past, My soul shall greet thee in that home on high,
"Where saints all meet at last.
A richer Sacramento, far above,
"Washes its jewell'd shores; And all who reach the shining plains of love,
Shall find its golden stores.