By Elizabeth Bentley
WHAT images arrest the mental view,
As lonely I the rural path pursue!
With sad regret fond Fancy hovers o’er
The shades of joys that must return no more;
When, by congenial sentiments endear’d,
Some friend in these delightful scenes has shared.
Tho’ twenty suns have roll’d their annual round,
But yesterday the vision seems to bound;
In that short space what victims Death has claim’d!
How oft his hand, too sure, the shaft has aim’d,
And snatch’d a friend! Yet some remain behind,
To soothe with tender thoughts the pensive mind.
Those sainted spirits, once on earth so dear,
As Guardian Angels yet, perhaps, are near;
To them, perhaps, the pleasing task is giv’n,
With “still, small voice” to guide the soul to Heav’n;
Pursue, they seem to say, the path we trod,
Then share with us the presence of thy God;
We wait to bear thee hence, with us to sing
Eternal hallelujahs to our King.