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For Mrs. W. H. November 15, 1857.

O I could envy thee thy solemn sleep,
Thy seal├Ęd lid, thy rosary-folding palm,
Thy brow, scarce cold, whose wasted outlines keep
The "Bona Mors" sublime, unfathomed calm.

 

I sigh to wear myself that burial robe
Anointed hands have blessed with pious care:
What nuptial garb on all this mortal globe
Could with thy habit's peaceful brown compare?

 

Beneath its hallowed folds thy feeble dust
Shall rest securely through the night of time,
Unharmed by worm, or damp, or century's rust;
But fresh, as youth, shall greet th' eternal prime

 

Of that clear morn, before whose faintest ray
Earth's bliss will pale, a taper's flickering gleam;
I see it break! the pure, celestial day,
And stars of mortal hope already dim.

 

"In pace," Lord, O! let her sweetly rest
In Paradise, this very day with thee;
Her faithful lips her dying Lord confessed,
Then let her soul thy risen glory see!