On the Death of My much loved half Sister Mrs. Emily Levinia Vincent
o'clock PM Dec 9th 1865
What is that sound
that moves the air,
And what is that, that strikes my ear;
That sinks still deeper, touches where
The heart feels most, and starts a tear:
They tell me that my sister's dead,
And is it so? her spirit's fled?
Far, far across We bring wave
Tis borne to me, that solemn sound,
Those deep cold echoes from the grave,
Where now my sister may be found
Sleeping the sleep that, wakes no more,
Fill God's loud trump shall shake that shore
Tis years since last I saw that face
And never now shall see it more;
Forever void's that vacant place;
She'; no more meet me at the door;
No more the welcome hand extend,
No more that smile to greet a friend.
She wished to see
me, I am told,
And sent her dying love this way,
But ere I heard it, ohe was cold,
Now I can only weep and pray:
much of me; of sister why
Was I not there to see thee die?
Thy husbands eyes I closed in death,
for he was a true friend to me,
But why should thy last parting breath
Ebb out so far away from me?
Why should I not be there to hear
The words that were to me so dear?
Oh sister, scarce three months ago,
Thou laid'st a little one to sleep;
Where now beside it, and full low,
Thy form is laid to make us weep
Where just before thy husband fell,
And my dear Fannie sleepth as well.
And now thy little ones are left
Like I was left, without a home,
Of Father, Mother, all bereft,
And where oh will their footsteps roam?
Oh God protect them all from harm,
And shield them with thy mighty arm.
The sod is now upon thy breast,
And cold the winds sweep wildly o'er,
But oh! up yonder with the blest,
I hope thy spirits gone before,
To join those shouts, and notes of praise
Our friends have long been taught to raise.
Look down from thy great height above,
In pity on us here below
And tell us if our earthly love
Is worthy of that, you bestow,
For sister though thou art not here
Thou'rt loved the same, And still as dear.
Now take thy rest, we can no more
Bring comfort to thy aching form
Whilst now perhaps at Heaven's door
Thou'st left behind thee all this storm;
And all the terrors that awake
The human sense at tortures stake
Thy restless soul
at last is still,
Thy tired muscles take their rest,
But oh-my sister, what can fill
The aching void that's in this breast?
The lonely heart broods o'er thy death,
And choking sobs impede
By Thy Sorrowing
A L Manning MD
Dec 14th 1865