I’ll weave a bracelet of this hair,—­
   Although these locks so hallowed are,
   It seems like sacrilege to wear
      Such relics of the dead.

   I’ve seen them clust’ring ’round a brow
   Which drooped beneath affliction’s blow,
   And slumbers in the church-yard now,
     With all its beauty flown.

   The hand that dressed these locks with care,
   And ’ranged them ’round that brow so fair,
   And oft clasped mine with friendly air,
     Is turning back to dust.

   And closed those eyes, whose radiant beams
   Surpass’d imagination’s dreams,
   Yet whisp’ring still, were but faint gleams
     Emerging from the soul.

   Farewell, dear friend, these locks I’ll keep,
   Till in the grave with thee I sleep;
   There, like thee, may I cease to weep,
     And, with thee, wake to sing.

LINES

Suggested by reading an account of the last hours of Mrs. Sarah Judson, second wife of the Late lamented Dr. Judson, of Burman.

“I am in a strait betwixt two, let the will of the Lord be done.”—­Judson’s Offering, 231_st page_.  These were the words of Mrs. Judson a few days previous to her death, when questioned as to her desires respecting the issue of the affliction under which she was suffering.

   Life’s trials and dangers will all soon be o’er,
   I feel myself nearing the heavenly shore,
   I’m weary of wand’ring, oh! fain would I rest
   With Jesus, my Savior, and sleep on his breast.

   I’m weary and thirsty, my spirit has flown
   Almost to that river which bursts from the throne;—­
   I’d range its fair borders, and plunge in its flood,
   And join with the angels in praising my God.

   I’d rest in the shade of that tree, growing near,
   Which yields its rich fruit every month in the year;
   Its leaves are so healing, no sickness comes there,
   To mar the new song as it floats through the air.

   I think of the rest in those regions above,—­
   My soul spreads her pinions and soars like a dove,—­
   Yet I’m drawn back to earth by one tender tie,
   Which oft clogs my wings;—­then, oh! how can I fly!

   I think of New England, my fair native land,
   The friends of my childhood, that dear faithful band,
   Who’re waiting to greet me with hearts full of love,
   Not knowing my bark will cast anchor above.

   To see me, my kindred impatiently wait,—­
   I think of those dear ones,—­my soul’s in a strait,—­
   My father, my mother, my dear orphan son,—­
   Oh Lord, decide for me, let thy will be done’

JUDSON’S GRAVE.