She perished in beauty,
As withers a rose
When its delicate petals
Begin to unclose.
She passed from among us,
And left us to pine
For the treasure we could not
With calmness resign.
The light of our home
Has grown dim since the hour
It lost the dear presence
Of Madeline Bower.
Her voice was like music
That trembles along,
When the last strain is sung
Of a soul-thrilling song.
So witchingly mellow,
You'd stand by her side,
And drink in its echo
Long after it died.
Now vainly we list
At the still, twilight hour
For the notes of our song-bird—
Lost Madeline Bower.
Her tresses of light
Seemed o'er marble to flow,
For her brow could have rivaled
The purest of snow.
Ah ! none but bereaved ones,
Who've wept o'er the clay,
Can know of our pangs
When 'twas hidden away.
One tress from its sisters
Was severed that hour :
'Twas all we might claim
Of sweet Madeline Bower.
Oh, would they could waft us—
Our treasures above—
Some tender remembrance,
Some token of love,—
A mystical sign
That they do not forget ;
A blessed assurance
They yearn for us yet !
Or is it designed
That we hear not nor see
One trace of our loved ones
Till death sets us free ?
Do we pass through the vale,
With its shadow and blight,
That the glory of heaven
May burst on our sight ?
If so, how ecstatic,
How rapturous the hour
Our freed souls are welcomed
By Madeline Bower !
