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BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH.

RESIGNATION.

But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion,
Clothed with celestial grace;

THERE is no flock, however watched and tended, And beautiful with all the soul's expansion

But one dead lamb is there !

There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,

But has one vacant chair!

The air is full of farewells to the dying,
And mournings for the dead;

The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,
Will not be comforted!

Let us be patient! These severe afflictions
Not from the ground arise,

But oftentimes celestial benedictions
Assume this dark disguise.

We see but dimly through the mists and vapors;
Amid these earthly damps

What seen to us but sad, funereal tapers
May be heaven's distant lamps.

There is no Death! What seems so is transition :

This life of mortal breath

Is but a suburb of the life elysian,
Whose portal we call Death.

She is not dead, the child of our affection,
But gone unto that school

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Sturdy of heart and stout of limb,

From eyes that drew half their light from him,

Where she no longer needs our poor protection, And put low, low underneath the clay,

And Christ himself doth rule.

In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion,
By guardian angels led,

Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution,
She lives whom we call dead.

Day after day we think what she is doing
In those bright realms of air;
Year after year, her tender steps pursuing,
Behold her grown more fair.

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken
The bond which nature gives,

Thinking that our remembrance, though un-
spoken,

May reach her where she lives.

Not as a child shall we again behold her ;
For when with raptures wild

In our embraces we again enfold her,
She will not be a child :

In his spring,

Passes away,

-on this spring day.

All the pride of boy-life begun,

All the hope of life yet to run;

Who dares to question when One saith "Nay."
Murmur not, only pray.

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MY MOTHER'S BIBLE.
THIS book is all that's left me now,
Tears will unbidden start,
With faltering lip and throbbing brow
I press it to my heart.

For many generations past

Here is our family tree;

My mother's hands this Bible clasped,
She, dying, gave it me.

Ah well do I remember those

Whose names these records bear;

Who round the hearthstone used to close, After the evening prayer,

And speak of what these pages said

In tones my heart would thrill! Though they are with the silent dead, Here are they living still!

My father read this holy book

To brothers, sisters, dear;
How calm was my poor mother's look,
Who loved God's word to hear!
Her angel face, — I see it yet!

What thronging memories come!
Again that little group is met
Within the halls of home!

Thou truest friend man ever knew,
Thy constancy I've tried;
When all were false, I found thee true,
My counsellor and guide.

The mines of earth no treasures give
That could this volume buy;
In teaching me the way to live,
It taught me how to die!

GEORGE P. MORRIS.

GOD'S-ACRE.

I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase which calls The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just; It consecrates each grave within its walls,

And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust. God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts Comfort to those who in the grave have sown The seed that they had garnered in their hearts, Their bread of life, alas! no more their own.

Into its furrows shall we all be cast,

In the sure faith that we shall rise again At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain. Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom, In the fair gardens of that second birth; And each bright blossom mingle its perfume With that of flowers which never bloomed on earth.

With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,

And spread the furrow for the seed we sow; This is the field and Acre of our God,

This is the place where human harvests grow!

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

FOR CHARLIE'S SAKE.

THE night is late, the house is still;

The angels of the hour fulfil
Their tender ministries, and move
From couch to couch in cares of love.
They drop into thy dreams, sweet wife,
The happiest smile of Charlie's life,
And lay on baby's lips a kiss,
Fresh from his angel-brother's bliss ;
And, as they pass, they seem to make
A strange, dim hymn, "For Charlie's sake."

My listening heart takes up the strain,
And gives it to the night again,
Fitted with words of lowly praise,
And patience learned of mournful days,
And memories of the dead child's ways.

His will be done, His will be done!
Who gave and took away my son,
In "the far land" to shine and sing
Before the Beautiful, the King,
Who every day doth Christmas make,
All starred and belled for Charlie's sake.

For Charlie's sake I will arise;

I will anoint me where he lies,
And change my raiment, and go in
To the Lord's house, and leave my sin
Without, and seat me at his board,
Eat, and be glad, and praise the Lord.
For wherefore should I fast and weep,
And sullen moods of mourning keep?
I cannot bring him back, nor he,
For any calling, come to me.
The bond the angel Death did sign,
God sealed

for Charlie's sake, and mine.
JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER

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OVER THE RIVER.

OVER the river they beckon to me,

Loved ones who 've crossed to the farther side, The gleam of their snowy robes I see,

But their voices are lost in the dashing tide. There's one with ringlets of sunny gold,

And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue; He crossed in the twilight gray and cold,

And the pale mist hid him from mortal view. We saw not the angels who met him there, The gates of the city we could not see: Over the river, over the river,

My brother stands waiting to welcome me.

Over the river the boatman pale

Carried another, the household pet; Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale, Darling Minnie! I see her yet.

She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands, And fearlessly entered the phantom bark ; We felt it glide from the silver sands,

And all our sunshine grew strangely dark; We know she is safe on the farther side, Where all the ransomed and angels be:

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