But to sound of sweet music she'll ne'er wake again.

There is _but one voice_ that deep slumber can break,
'Tis the same one that loudly called, "Lazarus, come forth!"
At the sound of that voice all the dead shall arise,
And before God shall stand all the nations on earth.

Then shall this dear one, our first born, awake,
Her mortal put on immortality then;
And oh! blissful thought, that we once more may meet
In that home where's no parting, death, sorrow, or pain.

Weston, May 29, 1852.

TO A FRIEND IN THE CITY,

FROM HER FRIEND IN THE COUNTRY.

By especial request I take up my pen,
To write a few lines to my dear Mrs. N.;
And though nothing of depth she has right to expect;
Yet the _will_ for the _deed_ she will not reject
The task, on reflection, is a heavy one quite,
As here in the country we've no news to write;
For what is to _us_ very _new_, rich, and rare,
To you in the city is stale and thread bare.
Should I write of Hungary, Kossuth, or the Swede,
They are all out of date, antiquated indeed.
I might ask you with me the New Forest to roam,
But it's stript of its foliage, quite leafless become;
N.P. Willis and rival have each had their day,
And of rappings and knockings there's nought new to say.
Yet do not mistake me, or think I would choose,
A home in the city, the country to lose;
The music of birds, with rich fruits and sweet flowers,
We all in the country lay claim to as ours.
A bird that's imprisoned, I hate to hear sing,
Let me catch its glad note as it soars on the wing;
Its carol so sweet as it's floating along,
It seems the Creator to praise in its song.
With the sweetest of poets I often exclaim,
"God made the country,"--let the pride of man claim
The town with its buildings, its spires, and its domes,
But leave us in the country our sweet quiet homes.
The scenery around us is lovely to view,
It charmed when a _child_, and at three-score charms too.
Then leave me the country with its birds, fruits, and flowers,
And the _town_, with its pleasures and crowds, may be yours.
E'en in winter the country has right to the claim
Of charms equal to summer; to be sure, not the same.
See winter, stern monarch, as borne on the gale,
He comes armed _cap-a-pie_ in his white coat of mail;
Behold what a change he hath wrought in _one_ night,
He has robed the whole country in _pure spotless white_.
He fails not to visit us once every year,
But finds us _prepared for him_--meets with good chee