Thornton. Poem by Fidelia S T Hill

The summer sun is sinking red
Beneath the 'Mountains Blue'
And thou upon thy dying bed,
Art laid, alas too true,
Thornton,
The slaves are hastening to their huts
Their daily labour done,
Each flow'r its tender petals shuts,
And thy brief race is run,
Thornton.
Wide seas are rolling still between
Thy relatives and thee,
And thou of them on earth hast seen
The last thou e'er shalt see,
Thornton.
No widow'd Mother near thee weeps
Who watch'd thine infancy,
And with the blest that Father sleeps
Who was so proud of thee,
Thornton.
No Brother dear, thy thoughts to raise
To brighter worlds above,
To tune thy soul to prayer and praise,
Or paint a Saviour's love,
Thornton.
No Sister bathes thy burning brow,
Or prints the parting kiss: —
Ah me, how little does she know,
How little dream of this —
Thornton.
Where is thy Love, the girl so fair,
Foremost in song and dance,
With winning mein and step of air,
And wild and laughing glance?
Thornton.
And where thy true and chosen Friend,
Youth of the constant heart?
What grief sincere that heart will rend,
When forced from thee to part,
Thornton.
Deserted in the stranger's land,
Far from thy native home —
See round thy couch a negro band,
To bear thee to thy tomb,
Thornton.
One only Friend, the envied one
Wipes the death damps away —
And lifts thy head — and she alone
For love doth near thee stay,
Thornton.
Her tears are on thy pallid cheek:
She fain would bid thee live;
And as a mother she doth speak,
And as a mother grieve,
Thornton.
Now motionless those sweet lips are,
And hush'd the balmy breath!
And closed the eye so brightly fair,
In the dark shades of death,
Thornton.
The world to thee was gaily bright,
And all unknown its gloom;
But he who dwells in endless light
Took thee from 'ills to come,'
Thornton.