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1791–1865

MISS JANE PENELOPE WHITING,

Lydia Howard Sigourney

I think of her unfolding prime, Her childhood bright and fair, The speaking eye, the earnest smile, The dark and lustrous hair,

The fondness by a Mother's side To cling with docile mind, Fast in the only sister's hand Her own forever twined,

The candor of her trustful youth, The heart that freshly wove Sweet garlands even from thorn-clad bowers, Because it dwelt in love,

The stainless life, whose truth and grace Made each beholder see The gladness of a spirit tuned To heavenly harmony.

But when this fair New-Year looked forth Over the old one's grave, While bridal pleasures neath her roof Their bright infusion gave,

Upon the lightning's wing there came A message none might stay, An angel,— standing at her side. To bear the soul away.

For us, was sorrow's startling shock, The tear, the loss, the pain, For her, the uncomputed bliss Of never-ending gain.

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MISS JANE PENELOPE WHITING, · Lydia Howard Sigourney · Poetry Cove