The grave is Heaven's gate, they say;
And when dear Annie passed away,
In holy sweetness--
When life's sad dream with her was o'er,
Her white soul stood at Heaven's door,
In its completeness.
MOTHER.
WHEN she changed worlds, and before the time, what was she to
others? A small old, delicate woman. _What was she to us?_ A
radiant, smiling angel, upon whose brow the sunshine of the eternal
world had fallen. We looked into her large, tender eyes, and saw not
as others did, that her mortal garment had waxed old and feeble; or
if we saw, this, it was no symbol of decay, for beyond and within,
we recognised _her_ in all her beauty. Oh! how heavy and bitter
would have been her long and slow decline, if we had seen her grow
old instead of young! The days that hastened to give her birth into
eternity, grow brighter and brighter, until when memory wandered
back, it had no experiences so sweet as those through which she was
passing. The long life, with its youthful romance, its prosaic
cares, its quiet sunshine, and deep tragedies, was culminating to
its earthly close; and, like some blessed story that appeals to the
heart in its great pathos, the end was drawing, near, all clouds
were rolling away, and she was stepping forth into the brilliance of
prosperity.
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