We strolled down by the river side,
My sister Nell and I,
To watch the waters onward glide,
And vessels passing by.
On Nature's floor of lovely green,
Bedecked with flowers of gold,
The purple sassafras as sheen,
Which trumpet vines enfold.
We played our youthful games for hours,
And told our childish tales;
Adorned each brow with fragrant flowers,
And slept 'neath cooling gales.
For I was then but nine years old,
And she was only seven;
Yet joys like ours can ne'er be told--
They savored much of heaven.
Close by the bank, in shady nooks,
The waxen lilies grew;
We called them fish, and with our hooks
To shore full many drew.
With these I made a wreath for Nell.
She was so good and pure,
They seemed to suit her brow so well,
Yet could not long endure
The heated brow and dewless air--
The river suits them best;
But graced awhile her golden hair,
As dove would silken nest.
Frail like the lilies, too, was Nell.
The fever's scorching blast
Swept by, and my fair flowerette fell,
And to the dust was cast.
But now she blooms in glory land,
Close by the tree of Life;
Better to bloom at God's right hand
Than in this world of strife.
I hope some day to meet her there,
And as in days of yore
We plucked the lilies, pure and fair,
Up there we'll gather more.