DEAR, beauteous death-the jewel of the just-
Shining nowhere but in the dark!
What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,
Could man outlook that mark!
He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may know, At first sight, if the bird be flown;
But what fair dell or grove he sings in now,
That is to him unknown.
And yet, as angels, in some brighter dreams,
Call to the soul when man doth sleep;
So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,
And into glory peep.
Father! disperse the mists which blot and fill
My perspective still as they pass;
Or else remove me hence unto that hill
Where I shall need no glass.
How many blessed groups this hour are bending,
Through England's primrose meadow-paths, their way
Towards spire and tower, midst shady elms ascending,
Whence the sweet chimes proclaim the hallow'd day!
The halls, from old heroic ages gray,
Pour their fair children forth; and hamlets low
Send out their inmates in a happy flow,
Like a freed vernal stream. I may not tread
With them those pathways-to the feverish bed
Of sickness bound; yet, O my God! I bless
Thy mercy, that with Sabbath-peace hath fill'd
My chasten'd heart, and all its throbbings still'd
To one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness!
* Her last composition: written a few days before her death.
"He giveth his beloved sleep."-Psalm cxxil. 2.
SLEEP soft, beloved! we sometimes say,
But have no time to charm away
Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep;
But never doleful dream again
Shall break the happy slumber, when
"He giveth His beloved sleep!"
O earth, so full of dreary noises!
O men, with wailing in your voices!
O delved gold, the wailer's heap!
O strife, O curse that o'er it fall!
God strikes a silence through you all,
And giveth His beloved sleep!
His dews drop mutely on the hill,
His cloud above it saileth still,
Though on its slope men sow and reap.
More softly than the dew is shed,
Or cloud is floated overhead,
He giveth his beloved sleep!
And friends, dear friends,-when it shall be
That this low breath is gone from me,
And round my bier ye come to weep,
Let one, most loving of you all,
Say "Not a tear must o'er her fall-
He giveth his beloved sleep!"
SHE died in beauty, like a rose blown from its parent stem;
She died in beauty, like a pearl dropp'd from some diadem;
She died in beauty, like a lay along a moonlit lake;
She died in beauty, like the song of birds amid the brake;
She died in beauty, like the snow on flowers dissolved away;
She died in beauty, like a star lost on the brow of day;
She lives in glory, like Night's gems set round the silver moon;
She lives in glory, like the sun amid the blue of June.
Nearness of "The Departed."
THE sea of life sends forth tumultuous waves:
And suddenly, beneath the trees, we count
Another sacred spot among the graves:
Another from the friendly circle gone,
One hand the less to greet us with its grasp,
And we, like Rachel, comfortless do mourn.
Soon, in the twilight, as night-blooming flowers
Begin to shed their perfume, close we feel
The beating of another heart than ours:
And with our finer sense another Mind
Floods waves of thought ecstatic o'er our own,
As though within our very soul entwined.
And as we con these inner lessons o'er,
We learn that those we call "departed " hold A nearness to ourselves unknown before:
And then we muse, and question where is heaven,
Whose golden streets our best beloved walk,
And unto which our purest thoughts are given :
On distant stars we fix our longing gaze,
Our aspirations wing to furthest goals,
Striving to find the land of love and praise:
In vain our thoughts far mystic realms explore;
Where'er our heart is, there to us is heaven,
And all our treasures lie upon its shore.
"The former things are passed away."-REV. XXI. 4.
THERE is a land of love,
Where every wind breathes soft, and glad, and free;
And every silvery, rippling stream exhales
Heart-joyous melody.
There sweetest, fairest flowers
Ope their love-tinted petals to the sun,
And gently breathe their ravishing perfume,
The way worn heart upon.
No burning sorrows there, No broken, bleeding hearts can there abide No silent, yearning, unrequited love→→→
All, all are satisfied.
O happy land of love!
By mortal feet untrod, or eye unseen;
Whene'er I think of thee, this changing life
Seems like a weary dream.
God does Nought in Vain.
I THINK, I feel-but when will she
Awake to thought again?
A voice of comfort answers me,
That God does nought in vain:
He wastes nor flower, nor bird, nor leaf,
Nor wind, nor cloud, nor wave;
And will he waste the hope which grief
Hath planted in the grave?
How shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps
The disembodied spirits of the dead,
When all of thee that time could wither sleeps
And perishes among the dust we tread?
For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless pain
If there I meet thy gentle presence not;
Nor hear the voice I love, nor read again
In thy serenest eyes the tender thought.
Will not thy own meek heart demand me there?
That heart whose fondest throbs to me were given,
My name on earth was ever in thy prayer,
Shall it be banish'd from thy tongue in heaven?
In meadows fann'd by heaven's life-breathing wind,
In the resplendence of that glorious sphere,
And larger movements of the unfetter'd mind,
Wilt thou forget the love that join'd us here?
The Kingdom of God.
I SAY to thee, do thou repeat
To the first man thou mayest meet
In lane, highway, or open street-
That he, and we, and all men, move
Under a canopy of love,
As broad as the blue sky above;
That doubt and trouble, fear and pain
And anguish, all are shadows vain,
That death itself shall not remain ;
That weary deserts we may tread,
A dreary labyrinth may thread,
Through dark ways underground be led ;
Yet, if we will One Guide obey,
The dreariest path, the darkest way
Shall issue out in heavenly day;
And we, on divers shores now cast,
Shall meet, our perilous voyage past,
All in our Father's house at last.
And ere thou leave him, say thou this
Yet one word more-they only miss
The winning of that final bliss,
Who will not count it true, that Love,
Blessing, not cursing, rules above,
And that in it we live and move.
And one thing further make him know,
That to believe these things are so,
This firm faith never to forego,
Despite of all that seems at strife
With blessing, all with curses rife,
That this is blessing, this is life.
|