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426 AMANDA M. EDMOND.

WHEN IS THE TIME TO DIE? 

I ASKED a glad and happy child,
Whose hands were fill'd with flowers,
Whose silvery laugh rang free and wild,
Among the vine-wreathed bowers.
I cross'd her sunny path, and cried,
'When is the time to die?'
'Not yet! not yet!' the child replied,
And swiftly bounded by.

I ask'd a maiden, back she flung
The tresses of her hair;
A whisper'd name was on her tongue,
Whose memory hover'd there.
A flush pass'd o'er her lily brow,
I caught her spirit's sigh;
'Not now,' she cried, 'O no, not now!
Youth is no time to die.'

I ask'd a mother, as she prest
Her first-born in her arms,
As gently on her tender breast
She hush'd her babe's alarms.
In quivering tones her answer came,
Her eyes were dim with tears, 
'My boy his mother's life must claim,
For many, many years!'

I question'd on in manhood's prime,
Of proud and fearless air,
His brow was furrow'd not by time,
Or dimm'd by woe and care.
In angry accents he replied,—
And gleam'd with scorn in his eye,
'Talk not to me of death,' he cried,
'For only age should die.'

AMANDA M. EDMOND.   427

I question'd Age; for him, the tomb
Had long been all prepared,
But death, who withers youth and bloom,
This man of years had spared.
Once more his nature's dying fire 
Flash'd high, as thus he cried,
'Life, only life is my desire!'
Then gasp'd, and groan'd, and died.

I ask'd a Christian—'answer thou
When is the hour of death;'
A holy calm was on his brow,
And peaceful was his breath;
And sweetly o'er his features stole
A smile, a light divine;
He spake the language of his soul,
'My Master's time is mine!'

THE GREENWOOD DEPTHS.

O! the greenwood depths are beautiful,
When the tall and stately trees,
In the summer's radiant foliage clad,
Are sway'd by the passing breeze.

I love them best in the evening hour,
When the silver moon pours down
A flood of light, from her censer bright,
On the shadowy forest's crown.

The soft breeze moans thro' the rustling trees,
And the silvery brook afar,
With a glad, clear tune, like a bird's in June,
Leaps on where the rushes are.

The cricket chirps in the old stone wall,
Where the velvet mosses grow,

Transcription Notes:
---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-29 21:30:48