MISS ANNA M. SEYMOUR,

The beauteous brow, the form of grace,

With all their youthful charms,

The hand that woke the pencil's power,

And bore to penury's lowly bower,

The never-wearied alms,

The sweet, sweet voice that duly cheer'd

A grateful Sabbath train,

The uprais'd eye that taught them more

Of Heaven, than all their student lore,

Must ne'er return again.

She took her flight as from the cage

Enfranchised warblers glide,

Though friends were dear, and life was fair,

She saw her Saviour standing there,

Beyond rough Jordan's tide.

Praise, praise to Him, whose faithful hand

Prepared her glorious place,

For us is loss,— for her release,

The robe of rest, the home of peace,—

For us, the pilgrim race.

Praise,— praise for her,— though love and grief

Still mournful vigil kept,—

The tear-wet incense He will take

Who at the grave, for friendship's sake,

In holy sadness wept.