BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH. RESIGNATION. But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, 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, The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, Let us be patient! These severe afflictions But oftentimes celestial benedictions We see but dimly through the mists and vapors; What seen to us but sad, funereal tapers There is no Death! What seems so is transition : This life of mortal breath Is but a suburb of the life elysian, She is not dead, the child of our affection, 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, Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, Day after day we think what she is doing Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken Thinking that our remembrance, though un- May reach her where she lives. Not as a child shall we again behold her ; In our embraces we again enfold her, 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." MY MOTHER'S BIBLE. For many generations past Here is our family tree; My mother's hands this Bible clasped, 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; What thronging memories come! Thou truest friend man ever knew, The mines of earth no treasures give 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 My listening heart takes up the strain, His will be done, His will be done! For Charlie's sake I will arise; I will anoint me where he lies, for Charlie's sake, and mine. 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: |