Burial of two Young Sisters, the only Children of their Parents

They're, in this turf-bed—those tender forms,So kindly cherished, and so fondly loved—They're here.Sweet sisters! pleasant in their lives,And not in death divided. Sure 'tis meetThat blooming ones should linger, and learnHow quick the transit to the silent tomb.I do remember them, their pleasant browsSo mark'd with pure affections, and the glanceOf their mild eyes, when in the house of God,They gathered up the manna, that did fall,Like dew, around.

The eldest parted first—And it was touching even to tears, to seeThe perfect meekness of that child-like soul,Turning 'mid sorrow's chastening to its God,And loosening every link of earthly hope,To gird an angel's glorious garments on.The younger lingered yet a little while,Drooping and beautiful. Strongly the nerveOf that lone spirit clasped its parent-prop;Yet still in timid tenderness embracedThe Rock of Ages—while the Saviour's voiceConfirmed its trust: "Suffer the little onesTo come to me."And then her sister's couchUndrew its narrow covering—and those forms,Which side by side, on the same cradle-bed,So often shared the sleep of infancy,Were laid on that clay pillow, cheek to cheekAnd hand to hand, until that morning break,Which hath no night.And ye are left alone,Who nurtured those fair buds, and often saidUnto each other, in the hour of care—"These same shall comfort us for all our toil."Yes, ye are left alone. It is not oursTo heal such wound. Man hath too weak a hand—All he can give, is tears.But he who tookYour treasures to his keeping: He hath powerTo bear you onward to that better land,Where none are written childless, and torn heartsBlend in a full eternity of bliss.