The Consumptive Poem by Benjamin Penhallow Shillaber

She faded, O, she faded!
And the roses fled her cheek,
And her voice, that caroled like a bird’s,
Grew tremulous and weak!
Her parched lips softly whispered
The sweet words she would say,
And her cold, thin hand was pale and still
As the sheet whereon it lay.

But her spirit glowed the brighter,
As her mortal end drew nigh,--
It beamed with heavenly radiance
In the luster of her eye;
She seemed to borrow glories
From the world she nearer drew,
And, as the form of earth decayed,
Her angel nature grew.

And patiently, how patiently!
She pressed her bed of pain,
As, sun by sun, the days declined,
And then renewed again;
Her Father’s hand she recognized,
And kissed the chastening rod,
And calmly waited for the hour
When she should soar to God.

And friends who gathered round her
Took comfort from her tone;
They felt that she was not for earth’s ,
But heaven’s joys alone;
And when the angel severed
The ties that bound her here,
Her transit filled their hearts with joy—
Their own loss claimed a tear.

O, Death! When thus approaching,
An angel form you take,
And pour the healing balm for hearts
That otherwise might break,
We see they path a way of light,
Ascending to the sky,
And pray an end thus fraught with bliss—
A death thus blest to die