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FORGET ME NOT.
THE SISTER'S DREAM.
By Mrs Hemans.
She sleeps!—but not the free and sunny sleep
That lightly on the brow of childhood lies;
Though happy be her rest, and soft, and deep,
Yet, ere it sank upon her shadow'd eyes,
Thoughts of past scenes and kindred graves o'erswept
Her soul's meek stillness—she had pray'd and wept.
That lightly on the brow of childhood lies;
Though happy be her rest, and soft, and deep,
Yet, ere it sank upon her shadow'd eyes,
Thoughts of past scenes and kindred graves o'erswept
Her soul's meek stillness—she had pray'd and wept.
And now in visions to her couch they come,
The early lost—the beautiful—the dead—
That unto her bequeathed a mournful home,
Whence with their voices all sweet laughter fled:
They rise—the sisters of her youth arise,
As from the world where no frail blossom dies.
The early lost—the beautiful—the dead—
That unto her bequeathed a mournful home,
Whence with their voices all sweet laughter fled:
They rise—the sisters of her youth arise,
As from the world where no frail blossom dies.
And well the sleeper knows them not of earth—
Not as they were when binding up the flowers,
Telling wild legends round the winter-hearth,
Braiding their long fair hair for festal hours;—
These things are past;—a spiritual gleam,
A solemn glory, robes them in that dream.
Not as they were when binding up the flowers,
Telling wild legends round the winter-hearth,
Braiding their long fair hair for festal hours;—
These things are past;—a spiritual gleam,
A solemn glory, robes them in that dream.