by C.J.C.
Originally published in Bradshaw's Manchester Journal (Bradshaw & Blacklock) vol.1 #22 (25 Sep 1841).
We stood around the pillowed couch,
And watched with tearful eye;
But He who loved her when in health
Had taught her how to die.
Life's taper fluttered, dwindled, sank,
Fast ebbed her parting breath,
She clasped her hands in speechless prayer,
And smiled away in death.
She smiled,—can I forget that look,
Paled by consumption's power!
It seemed as if a glimpse of heaven
Had blessed her dying hour.
I gazed upon that marble brow,
Those cold yet parted lips,
Those eyes, where beauty slept enshrined,
Now sunk in death's eclipse.
Thou art indeed a fell disease,
Thou spar'st the old and grey;
The young, the lovliest, brightest, best,
Are destined for thy prey.
No tortured limbs or ghastly looks
Announce thy slow career;
Thy victims e'en more beautiful
In Death's dark hour appear.
'Tis like the rainbow's transient arch
Bedeck'd in bright array,
Whose tints seem purer, lovelier far,
Before they glide away.
Such was thy happy death, sweet girl,
Forgiving and forgiven;
Earth was no spot where thou could'st dwell,
Thy resting place was Heaven.