There is peace on Eva's wasted brow,
And a soft light in her eye;
But her father's heart grows hopeless now,
For he knows that she must die.

Yet the thought is kind and the trust is true,
As she takes him by the hand,—
“Dear father I will look for you
In the light of God's own land.

“Oh let them cut the long, long curls
That flow about my head,
And let our poor kind negroes come
For a moment round my bed.

“They have smoothed and stroked it many a day
In their kindly sport, and care,
And it may be they will think of me
When they see that curling hair.”

The negroes loved her, young and old,
With a fond and deep regard,
For Eva's look was never sour,
And her words were never hard.

And her old nurse by the bedside stood,
Sore sobbing in her woe,
That so many sinners here should stay,
And the good and young should go.

“Dear nurse,” said Eva, “I go home
To the happiest home of all;
Where never an evil thing will come,
And never a tear will fall.

And I will hope each one to see,
That blessed home within;
Where Christ himself will set us free
From the bonds of death and sin.”

Oh, swift and sad were the tears that fell,
As her gifts among them passed,
And Tom, he got the first fair curl,
And Topsy got the last.

But first and last alike were given,
With some words of love and prayer;
And it may be, hearts were helped to heaven,
By the links of that soft hair.