Death Of A Friend

by Phoebe Carey

Where leaves by bitter winds are heaped
In the deep hollows, damp and cold,
And the light snow-shower silently,
Is falling on the yellow mould,

Sleeps one who was our friend, below; --
With meek hands folded on her breast,
When the first flowers of summer died,
We softly laid her down to rest.

By her were blessings freely strewn,
As roses by the summer's breath;
Yet nothing in her perfect life
Was half so lovely as her death.

In the meek beauty of a faith
Which few have ever proved like her,
She shrunk not even when she felt
The chill breath of the sepulchre.

Heavier, and heavier still, she leaned
Upon his arm who died to save,
As step by step he led her down
To the still chamber of the grave.

'T was at the midnight's solemn watch
She sunk to slumber, calm and deep:
The golden fingers of the dawn
Shall never wake her from that sleep.

From him who was her friend below,
She turned to meet her Heavenly Guide;
And the sweet children of her love,
She left them sleeping when she died.

Her last of suns went calmly down,
And when the morn rose bright and clear,
Hers was a holier Sabbath-day
Than that which dawned upon us here.