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88 SONGS FROM THE ST. LAWRENCE.
Her's was a fearful death—I saw her die— Caught her last glance—heard her expiring sigh. No Saviour smiled upon her dying bed— "No hope was mingled with the tears we shed! That awful night!—Methinks I see her now— Cold clammy sweats were glistening on her brow; Wild with delirium long she struggled there, Then sunk exhausted as in deep despair.
Reason return'd—she knew that she must die— No gleam of hope lit up her languid eye; She whisper'd, " 0, thou slighted Lamb of God, I 've grieved thy Spirit, trampled on thy blood: Canst thou forgive ?" she wildly cried, and then A strange convulsion rack'd her frame again; Her quivering lips were seal'd in death—the
prayer, Half finish'd, trembled and was silenced there.
Oft have I stood, amidst a weeping band, Around the death-bed of some cherish'd friend; My stricken heart has bled at every pore, And I have wept till I could weep no more; But never have I felt as when I heard, From Ellen's lips, the latest hopeless word— Ne'er have I sicken'd with such faint despair, As when I listen'd to her dying prayer.