Lines to A sister.

   Susan, I long again to greet thee,
     Fain would I clasp thee in my arms,
   While that bland smile o’erspread thy features,
     Which to thy brow adds nameless charms.

   Dear sister, I can still remember
     When first I clasped thee to my breast;
   I viewed thee as a priceless treasure,
     Bestowed to make life’s pathway blest.

   Although a little tiny creature,
     Devoid of friendship, love, or care,
   Yet, I highly prized the casket,
     I knew a sister’s heart throbbed there.

   And when I heard, in lisping accents,
     Affection flowing from thy tongue,
   With strange delight, I listened to it,
     As though some little cherub sung.

   When in the garden thou wast straying,
     To play among thy fragrant flowers,
   I thought that Flora’s fairest blossoms
     Would vainly strive to vie with ours.

   Dear sister, canst not thou remember,
     When I’d been absent for awhile,
   With what a boyant step thou’dst meet me,
     And greet me with thy sunny smile?

   And, when fatigued, I sought retirement,
     Or left thee for a few short hours,
   Oft them wouldst steal into my chamber
     And strew my couch with fragrant flowers.

   I trust that flame is not extinguished,
     Although our duty bade us part;
   I trust it still is burning brightly
     Upon the altar of thy heart.

   O come, and join the fireside circle
     Around the old paternal hearth;
   Come, let thy smiles and songs delight us,
     They are like sunlight to the earth.

   The little birds are singing sweetly;
     The verdant fields perfume the air;
   Our garden walks would be most pleasant,
     If Susan’s voice was ringing there.

   Adieu, dear sister, for the present,
     But tell me, wilt thou not be here
   Ere the wintry winds are sighing
     Requiems o’er a dying year?

TO MY BROTHER.

The scenes of our childhood.

   Far back, through the vista of long buried years,
   I look through this valley of sorrow and tears;
   Like pictures, in bright glowing colors displayed,
   The scenes of my life’s rosy morn are portrayed.

   An image, the foreground presents to my sight,
   Which shed o’er my pathway its radiant light;
   An image of him who first held my soft hand,
   And shouted with joy when his sister could stand;

   From him, I first caught the sweet magical art
   Of turning to language, the thoughts of my heart;
   When first to the school-house he went as my guide. 
   His heart swelled with pleasure, affection and pride.

   Delighted, we ranged o’er the hillside, in spring,
   And listened with rapture to hear the birds sing;
   Then stopped in the pasture to see the lambs play,
   As frolicsome, cheerful, and happy as they.