(How often she comes when I dream!)

Through the garden of Heaven she loitered,

Then stood by a clear, placid stream.

And out of the heart of the river

A bunch of white lilies she drew,

I scarce could discern from the blossoms

Her fingers, so waxen their hue.

But her face wore the same quiet features,

And her smile was enhancing the light

That fell on this friend of my bosom,

This angel robed softly in white.

I longed to reach upward and touch her,

To ask why the flowers she twined;

Wondered often for whom was the garland,

And the crown with the lily buds lined.

So I cried and my voice soared onward

Farther than sight could extend—

“For whom are you weaving this chaplet?

Speak, Scotta! sweet spirit and friend.”

“O! tell me just why from the portals

Of Heaven you’ve wandered away,

And sit here alone by the river

Wreathing these lilies to-day.”

Her lips parted, as if for an answer—

Then a cluster of cherubim, came—

They hovered about this sweet seraph,

And whispered in concert a name.

It resounded along Heaven’s archway,

But soft on my ear that word fell,

Soft as her accents of friendship,

Soft as a Sabbath eve bell.

And the dewdrops and spray of the river

On the garlands to crystals had turned,

The crown she embedded with snow-drops,

One jewel there glittered and burned.

Its luster was brilliant and sunlike,

As burnished as those in the throne,

But the name that her own gentle fingers

Had carved there, ah! me, was—my own.

And what if Life’s thorns pressed my temples

Or sorrow to midnight turns day,

I will press on alone through the darkness,

Believing her hand leads the way.

I will traverse the chill “Swamp of Cypress”

Where the “Rivers of Death” slowly wind;

For she’ll beckon me over with garlands,

And the crown with the lily buds lined.