page 20

Rosabelle.

The bright orb of day
Was sinking to rest,
His last rays adorn'd
The glorious West;
And gently were stealing
The shadows of even,
When a soul was passing
From earth to heaven.

Sickness had never,
With withering breath,
To her forshadowed
The approach of death.
The cold slimy rocks
Formed her chilly bed,
When the dark deep waters
Closed over her head.

Some flowerets hung over
The margin above,
That spoke to her young heart
The first thoughts of love;
And her own sweet image,
So heavenly fair,
Seemed like a bright angel
That beckoned her there.

No eye was near her
To witness her fall,
page 21 Nor a listening ear
Could have heard her call;
And night's sable curtain
Drew closely around,
Concealing each trace
Where she might be found.

But mourners were many—
Even yon blue sky,
With tears did bedim
The fair day's bright eye;
And the soft winds sighed
Her sad fate to tell;
While the loud thunder rung
Her funeral knell.

They searched her o'er hill
And o'er valley lone,
Till the busy world
To their rest had gone.
No words can describe
The poor mother's pain,
As she reads in their looks
That their search was vain.

Though her love was shared
Among more than one,
Her heart was so fond
She could part with none;
And her eyes oft turn
To an empty chair,
When she thinks of one
Who will ne'er sit there.