The eyes that give no longer back
The tender look of love,

Now, with a deathless gleam, drink in
God's beauteous world above.

The lips whose sweet tones made us ask
If angels sweeter sung,

Though silent here, make heaven glad
With their melodious tongue.

And, though her body lies asleep,

Our favorite is not dead:

She rises through dark death's bright birth, "With joy upon her head."

And she is just our loved one still,

And loves us now no less:

She goes away to come again,-
To watch us, and to bless.

And though we cannot clasp her hand,
Nor look upon her face,

Nor listen to her voice again,

Nor watch her ways of grace,

Still we can keep her memory bright,
And walk the way she trod,
And trust she waits until we come
Up to the house of God.

Let us be thankful, through our tears,

That she was ours so long,

And try to hush our tones of grief
And listen to her song.

He Giveth His Beloved Sleep.

HE resteth now. No more his breast
Heaves with its weary breath:
Pain now no more contracts the brow
Where broods the calm of death.
Sunk to his rest, like tired child,
He lies in slumber deep,
Soft folded in the arms of Him

Who "giveth his beloved sleep."

M. J. S.

Nay, doth he rest?

No: day nor night

He resteth not from praise.

His spirit, winged with rapture, knows

No more earth's weary ways;

But ever towards the Infinite

His flight on, upward, doth he keep;
For he gives active tirelessness,
Who "giveth his beloved sleep."

And while we grope our doubtful way,
Tear-blinded in the night,

He reads the meaning of our grief
Clear writ in heavenly light.
And looking o'er the path he trod,

Weary, oft-times, and rough and steep,
He knows 'twas goodness led him on,
And gave to "his beloved sleep."

We, heart-sore pilgrims, follow him :
It is not for his fate we moan,
But that we "see his face no more,"
And now must travel on alone.
He, standing on the hills of God,
Doth beckon to us while we weep.

The night is short, the morning's dawn
Shall greet us rising from our sleep.

M. J. S.

G. M.

OH, what is all that can be done,
And what is all that can be said?
When all is passed, the fact remains
That he, my noble one, is dead.

Friends gather round and speak to me,
But can they make him speak once more?

I see them coming, but I hear

Not his loved footfall on the floor.

They clasp my hand in sympathy;
But, oh! his hand is still and cold:
They look upon me, but his eyes

Will look no more the love of old.

O friends, your sympathy is dear,
But who can give him back to me?
Empty and poor is all the world,

Since I his face no more can see.

I do not mourn a common loss.

O merchants, have you known of one, A truer, cleaner-handed man

Than he whose earthly work is done?

Tell me, O friends, if anywhere,

In all your circles, far or near,
You've found a firmer, truer friend
Than this fast friend that sleepeth here!

O mothers, who with love and pride,
In all the years since time begun,
Have trained your children, tell me where
You've found a truer, tenderer son!

O husbands, wives, in all the earth,
Was any less disposed to roam ?

One who was purer in his love,

Or more devoted to his home?

O country, in your hour of need,

When swords were crossed in bitter strife,
What nobler patriot did you find,
Or truer to your perilled life?

If "trees are by their fruitage known,"
O God, who seest the "inner part,"
Then search him through, and thou shalt find
That he was sound and true at heart.

But what can this avail me now?
Because in him there was no dross,
Because my memories are so fair,
Therefore is mine the greater loss.

But

God forgive me!—though I bear
A pain that words can never tell,
Yet somehow I must still believe

That what so crushes me is well.

The memory of his noble life

Shall still inspire me; and some day
The clouds may lift, and light once more
Shine round about my darkened way.

I know he'd have me hopeful still;
Let me look up, then, through my tears.
He'll not return; but I shall hope

To find him in the happier years.

M. J. S

F. F. T.

I LOVED him, friends; and in the mourner's place
Would I sit silent with my tears to-day.

But now his lips are still, and I must speak;
But what words can our thoughts of him portray?

A true and sincere man! With open mind
And heart all crystal-clear, he faced the light.
For though it pained him, still with steadfast gaze,
As on the sun, he dared look on the right.

No ear he stopped, although the voice divine
Bade him walk onward in an untried way:
Such faith in God was his, he could not doubt
The star of truth must lead toward the day.

Stern was he in the battle for the right,

With foot that faltered not, though hard the path. The fire of love for man that warmed his soul Against all wrong could flame with virtuous wrath.

Yet gentle was he as a little child;

And, in his tender, sympathetic heart, Weakness and sorrow found a hiding-place: No pang of others, but he felt the smart.

He loved his home. As needle to the pole
Turns ever true on whate'er seas men roam,
So to his fireside turned his constant heart:
No spot to him so blessed as his home.

Yet from this home, as from a central sun,

His love for man o'er all the earth outshone:
No earnest cause appealed to him in vain,
That hoped to lead the old earth up and on.

A noble man lies here asleep to-day.

After long weeks of weariness and pain,
Death drew her restful curtains round his bed;
And, though we call, he will not wake again.

Nor would we wish to wake him if we might;
For he has seen the Unseen face to face.
His work on earth is finished. Who would dare
To call him down again from his high place?

And yet, O friends! it is such men as he

That make the earth seem empty when they leave. That he was noble is our comfort now,

Το

And yet 'tis for this very cause we grieve.

you, whose broken home will seem so still, So vacant now that he has gone away,

I fain would speak some word of hope and cheer
And yet what is it any one can say?

None doubts 'tis well with him. But you will long
To clasp his hand, to see his face once more.
At morn, you'll listen for his cheery voice;
At night, to hear his foot-fall on the floor.

The sting of death remains when all is said;
For it is this, that those we hold so dear

No longer walk the ways of life with us.

We want them happy, but we want them here.

When all is said and done, we come to this:

Though clouds be round us and tears dim our way,
We still trust that He who makes the night
Will lead us through it to the coming day.

We'll hide his loving memory in our hearts;
We'll follow in the pathway that he trod:
We'll make each day another step upon
The stairway leading up to him and God.

M. J. S.