In Memory of Isabella Terwilliger.
By N. P. E.
OUR little Isabella sleeps at last. Long weeks we watched the little restless form as she lay moaning and wrestling with death. But she sleeps now—sleeps the dreamless, painless slumber. Sadly we closed the violet eyes, folded the pale little hands across the pulseless heart, and pressed our last kisses upon those mute tender lips—those lips whose lightest syllable was ever the sweetest music to our ears. O Isabella! our precious little Isabella! We weep for our dead. Aye, bitter, burning tears, that fail to wash away the pain, the longing regret. But, thank God! there is for our darling no more weeping, nor pain; and though she sleeps now, there is for her a blissful awakening to the joy and gladness of immortality. We know that when we see her again, there will be no mark of pain on her brow, but a crown of glory; no moan will be heard from her lips, but the song of triumph, such as the redeemed shall sing. No thorns for the tender feet, but they shall tread the gold-paved streets of the New Jerusalem. Thank God! there is no sin, no sorrow, no death, no parting there. Aye, thank God! again and yet again thank him for this blissful hope. But for us, alas! the victory is not yet won. Our Father has work for us, and we must do it faithfully, if we, too, would have a home in Heaven. Oh let us strive to overcome, let us live prayerfully; let our aspirations be more holy and more approaching the divine life. Then when "life's fitful dream is over," we may hope to meet thee again, our little Isabella. Pleasantville, Ind., Oct. 3, 1865.