Emma Catherine Embury

There dwelleth in the sinlessness of youth A sweet rebuke that vice may not endure.

— The grave's dark portal Soon shuts this world of shadows from our view, Then shall we grasp realities immortal, If to the truth within us we are true.

Number the riches by thy memory hoarded, Relics of joys thy by-past years have known, — How many real things has life afforded? How much true light was o'er thy pathway thrown?

Like the sweet melody which faintly lingers Upon the wind-harp's strings at close of day, When gently touch'd by evening's dewy fingers It breathes a low and melancholy lay; So the calm voice of sympathy meseemeth; And while its magic …

When the glad sun, exulting in his might, Comes from the dusky-curtain'd tents of night.

Peace, sweet Peace, is always found In her eternal home on holy ground.

Oh never yet did Peace her chaplet twine, To lay upon base Mammon’s sordid shrine, Where Earth’s most precious things are bought and sold; Thrown on that pile, the "pearl of price" would be Despised, because unfit for merchantry.

The charm of eloquence, — the skill To wake each secret string, And from the bosom's chords at will Life's mournful music bring, — The o'ermastering strength of mind, which sway The haughty and the free,

Like lamps in Eastern sepulchres, Amid my heart’s deep gloom, Affection sheds its holiest light Upon my husband’s tomb. And, as those lamps, if brought once more To upper air grow dim,

The gathered rose, and the stolen heart, Can charm but for a day.

Sorrow treads heavily, and leaves behind A deep impression e’en when she departs; While joy trips by, with steps light as the wind, And scarcely leaves a trace upon our hearts Of the faint footfalls, only this is sure — In this world …

Weep not for those Who sink within the arms of death Ere yet the chilling wintry breath Of sorrow o'er them blows; But weep for them who here remain, The mournful heritors of pain,