Analysis of Dartmouth Church

JUST where the evening sunbeams rest, there hangs
A simple tablet with a maiden's name,
And with a common history—alas,
That such things should be common ! There are some
In youth so full of youth's divinest part,
Its hope, its ready sympathies, its joy,
That grief (our natural portion) seems to have
No part in them. Edith was one of these.
The morning gave its blushes and its light
To that sweet face, which shone upon us all
With an unconscious gladness. Never mouth
Had such a gay variety of smiles,
Her very hair was bright, and o’er her neck
Wandered like sunshine. Many an aged ear
Would listen for the music of her step,
For frequent was her visit to the old,
Who grew more cheerful, and thanked God that gave
A creature of such loveliness to earth :
The heart spoke in her countenance, and shewed
The inward beauty. Long before you saw,
You heard her glad voice singing like a bird,
E’en from the fulness of its own delight.
She passed away from us, as fades the flower
That bears the secret of its own decay.
Her cheek forgot its rose, or only wore
A hectic flush, and in her eyes there shone
A feverish radiance : from the first she knew
That on her was the shadow of the grave;
And as it darkened, she but grew more meek,
More calm, more earnest, and more spiritual,
As if she felt that heaven was her home,
And she but hastening thither.

In the melancholy occupation of turning over the note book of a deceased friend, I met with the following copy of, or idea for, a monumental inscription:—

“EDITH RICHARDSON,
AGED EIGHTEEN YEARS AND THREE MONTHS.
SHE DIED YOUNG AND HAPPY.”