Pagina-afbeeldingen
PDF
ePub

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 !

Shall wc bchold her face.
There is no firesiile, hoursoc'er defended,
But has one vacant chair !

And though, at times, impetuous with emotion

And anguish long suppressed, The air is full of farewells to the dying,

The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, And mournings for the deadl ;

That cannot be at rest,
The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,
Will not be comforted !

We will be patient, and assnage the feeling

We may not wholly stay ;
Let us be patient! These severe afflictions By silence sanctifying, not concealing,
Not from the ground arise,

The grief that must have way.
But oftentimes celestinl benedictions

Assume this dark disguise.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

BURIED TO-DAY.

We see but dimly through the mists and vapors;

Amid these earthly damps
What seem to us but sad, funercal tapers

May be heaven's distant lamps.

February 23, 1858.

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.

Buried to-day.

When the soft green buds are bursting out,

And up on the south-wind comes a shout
Of village boys and girls at play
In the mild spring evening gray.

Taken away

She is not dead, the child of our assection, Sturdy of heart and stout of limb,
But gone unto that school

From eyes that drew halftheir light from him,
Where she no longer needs our poor protection, And put low, low underneath the clay,
And Christ himself doth rule.

In his spring,

on this spring day.

[blocks in formation]

Nor pain, nor grief, nor anxious fear,

LINES
Invade thy bounds ; no inortal woes
Can reach the peaceful sleeper here,

TO THE MEMORY OF "Annie,” WHO DIED AT MILAN,

JUNE 6, 1860. While angels watch the soft repose.

"Jesus snith unto her, Woman, why weepest thou ? whom seek.

est thou ! She, supposing him to be the gardener, saith unto him, So Jesus slept ; Goul's dying Son

Sir, if thou have borne huu hence, tell me where thou hast laid Passed through the grave, and blest the bed : hiin." — JOHN XX. 15. Rest here, blest saint, till from his throne In the fair gardens of celestial peace The morning break, and pierce the shade.

Walketh a gardener in meekness clad ; Break from his throne, illustrious morn ;

Fair are the flowers that wreathe his devy locks,

And his mysterious eyes are sweet and sad. Attend, O carth, his sovereign word ; Restore thy trust ; a glorious form

Fair are the silent foldings of his robes, Shall then arise to meet the Lord.

Falling with saintly calmness to his feet ; And when he walks, cach floweret to his will

With living pulse of sweet accord doth beat.

DR. ISAAC WATTS.

[blocks in formation]

CALM ON THE BOSOM OF THY GOD. Two lips still breathing love,

Not wrath, nor fears" :
Call on the bosom of thy God,

So pray we afterwards, low on our knees;
Young spirit ! rest thee now.

Pardon those crring prayers ! Father, hear these ! Even while with us thy footstep trod,

His seal was on thy brow.

DINAH MARIA MULOCK.

[merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small]
[blocks in formation]

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 !

[blocks in formation]

GEORGE P. MORRIS.

GOD'S-ACRE.

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

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.

UNDER THE CROSS.

I CANNOT, cannot say, Out of my bruised and breaking heart, Storm-driven along a thorn-set way,

While blood-drops start From every pore, as I drag on,

“Thy will, O God, be done !"

[blocks in formation]

SOFTLY WOO AWAY HER BREATH.

SOFTLY woo away her breath,

Gentle death !
Let her leave thee with no strife,

Tender, mournful, murmuring life! She hath seen her happy day,

She hath had her bud and blossom ; Now she pales and shrinks away,

Earth, into thy gentle bosom !

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.

She hath done her bidding here,

Angels dear!
Bear her perfect soul above,

Seraph of the skies, sweet love! Good she was, and fair in youth ;

And her mind was seen to soar,
And her heart was wed to truth :

Take her, then, forevermore,
Forever -

—evermore !

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 :

BARRY CORNWALL.

« VorigeDoorgaan »