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December, 1845. DEERFIELD.

O how sadly looks out,
ON the clear winter night,
That lone chamber window,
Closely curtained in white.


No dear hand now removes
The still folds from their rest,
Still and cold as the shroud
O'er some beautiful breast.


No light now ever streams
That high, fair casement through,
From it never outleans
The slight form we once knew.
The low bed is empty,
And the cold pillows bear
No more the fair temples
And moist clustering hair.


Ah me! to remember
That desolate chamber,
And to think that such gloom
Should e'er shadow his room,
The sunniest hearted
Of all who once parted
With a smile and "Good night!"
From the fireside so bright!


The hoarse winds sweeping chill
That far burial hill--
Alas! how those winds smite
My sad heart, if at night
I but chance to remember
The warm sleep he once slept--
So beloved, now so wept--
In that white-curtained chamber.


But rich consolation
For such desolation
The promise Paternal
Of mansions eternal,
Where the weary will rest,
When the soul is made strong
To pass to the meek throng
Of the perfectly blessed!


And how close to my heart
This one promise I press,
And how soothes its sweet voice
Every throb of distress;


Though the tears may still gush
As, returning at night,
That lone casement I see,
Closely curtained in white.