She Slumbers Still.

On a midsummer's eve she lay down to sleep,     Wearied and toil-worn the maiden was then;     How deep was that slumber, how quiet that rest,     'Twas the sleep from which no one awakens again.     Morn returned in its freshness, and flowers that she loved     In beauty and fragrance were blooming around;     The birds caroled sweetly the whole live-long day,     But that strange mystic sleep all her senses had bound.     Day followed day until summer was gone,     And autumn still found her alone and asleep;     Stern winter soon followed, but its loud blasts and shrill,     Were powerless to rouse her from slumber so deep.     Again spring returns, and all nature revives,     And birds fill the groves with their music again;     But the eyes and the ears of that loved one are closed,     And on her these rich treasures are lavished in vain.     Unheeded by her the winter snow falls,     Its beautiful garment spring puts on in vain;     Many summers the birds her sad requiem have sung,     But to sound of sweet music she'll ne'er wake again.     There is but one voice that deep slumber can break,     'Tis the same one that loudly called, "Lazarus, come forth!"     At the sound of that voice all the dead shall arise,     And before God shall stand all the nations on earth.     Then shall this dear one, our first born, awake,     Her mortal put on immortality then;     And oh! blissful thought, that we once more may meet     In that home where's no parting, death, sorrow, or pain.     Weston, May 29, 1852.