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ulous minute can be remembered.
At length, at midnight on the 2d of February, 1864, she turned down a leaf of a little book she was reading, and shut it up.
The ministering hand that had copied the verses into the tiny album was soon around her neck, and she quietly asked, as the clock was on the stroke of one: “Do you think I am dying, mamma 3 ''
“I think you are very, very ill to-night, my dear.”
“Send for my sister. feet are so cold. Lift me up !” lier sister entering as they
raised her, she said: “It has come at last !” And with a bright and happy smile looked upward, and departed. Well had she written: —
Why shouldst thou fear the beautiful angel, Death,
Who * thee at the portals of the skies,
Ready to kiss away thy struggling breath.
Iteady with gentle hand to close thine eyes?
Oh, what were life, if life were all? Thine eyes
Are blinded by their tears, or thou wouldst see
Thy treasures wait thee in the far-off
skies And Death, thy friend, will give them all to thee.
("ON TENTS. xiii
I.EGENI)S AND I.YRICS. A BOOK OF VERSES.