(Written in her fifteenth year )

When evening spreads her shades around,
And darkness fills the arch of heaven;
When not a murmur, not a sound
To Fancy's sportive ear is given;

When the broad orb of heaven is bright,
And looks around with golden eye;
When Nature, softened by her light,
Seems calmly, solemnly to lie;

Then, when our thoughts are raised above
This world, and all this world can give;
Oh, sister, sing the song I love,
And tears of gratitude receive.

The song which thrills my bosom's core,
And hovering, trembles, half afraid;
O sister, sing the song once more
Which ne'er for mortal ear was made.

'T were almost sacrilege to sing
Those notes amid the glare of day;
Notes borne by angels' purest wing,
And wafted by their breath away.

When sleeping in my grass-grown bed,
Should'st thou still linger here above,
Wilt thou not kneel beside my head,
And, sister, sing the song I love?