LINES

ON THE DECEASE OF MRS. GRAHAM.

HARK! did I hear the tolling bell

Emit a sound of wo?
It sighs along the wind to tell

That Death has struck a blow :

And could it sound the valued name,

Of her, who low is laid;
And say, 'tis Isabella Graham,

The poor would feel dismay'd.

Her love was ardent to her God,

His precepts touch'd her beart,
And thence the strearn of mercy flow'd,

Rich blessings to impart.

Struck with the grace that Jesus show'd,

For guilty man to die;
She felt the weight of debt she owed,

His name to glorify.

Her ardent step was wont to seek

Affliction's narrow door ;
And entering there, she lov'd to speak

In mercy to the poor :

With sympathy she heard their tale,

And brought her comforts nigh;
But most of all would never fail

To lead their thoughts on high.

The orphan's innocence would melt

Her feeling heart to tears;
And even those deild with guilt,

Had interest in her prayers.

Her active mind, with wisdom stor'd,

Beheld the widow's grief,
And form'd such plans as might afford

The destitute relief.

Occasioned by viewing the Portrait of the late Mrs. ISABELLA

GRAHAM, which is prefixed to her life.

WHILST in this faded form I trace,

The features which I lov'd so well,
· Remembrance brings each mental grace,

Within its hallow'd shrine to dwell.

For 1 have seen that darken'd eye,

In all the fire of genius roll,
With eagle-gaze explore the sky,
Or with a keener glance descry

The secret workings of the soul
And I have seen this pallid cheek

Suffus'd with feeling's richest glow;
And virtue's brightest halo deck

With sacred charms these locks of snow.

And on these lips in silence clos'd,

With rapt attention oft I hung,
And heard those wondrous truths disclos'd

Which Sages taught or Seraphs sung.
And I have known this wither'd hand

Extended wide the poor to bless-
And this contracted breast expand

With generous schemes to aid distress.
And now, though far remov'd from earth,

And every scene of mortal pain,
This dear memorial of her worth,

Shall many a drooping neart sustain.
Still shall it dry the widow's tear*

The hapless orphan's want supply,
Guide to a blest asylum here

And point to happier realms on high.
My Father's friend!-How poor the praise,

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