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LETTERS.
On the fire that burneth
In our day of woe.
O’er the troubled spirit
Peace is stealing now,
When sleep, like an angel,
Kisses this sad brow. :
Hush! oh let me slumber;
Let me dream of bliss;
Cease, fond heart, thy throbbing
Grudge not rest like this!
Oh, my silent pillow,
Friend so true, so dear!
Where, in dreams Elysian,
Joy still hovers near.
Fancy’s star above me
Beanis with lustre bland;
Hope’s fair daughter, smiling,
Takes my willing hand.
Then the weary captive
Bursts his fetters sore,
Sings a song of triumph
On a fairer shore.
Sees, as in a mirror,
Future ages gleam;
Faith, with bark unswerving,
Stems the surging stream.
Feels all pangs departing,
Sees the heavens grow bright,
Sees the journey ended,
Sees the Lord of Light.
And a voice melodious
Whispers, He is thine!
Holy hymns shall praise Thee,
Father of all —and mine!
Fain of such glad tidings
I would yet dream on;
Of all pangs forgetful,
Thanking God alone!
139
M. R. W-
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