I have not looked upon you nigh, Since that dear soul hath fallen asleep. I will not tell you not to weep. And though my own eyes fill with dew, Drawn from the spirit through the brain, I will not even preach to you, "Weep, weeping dulls the inward pain." Let Grief be her own mistress still: I will not say, "God's ordinance Of death is blown in every wind;" For that is not a common chance His memory long will live alone In all our hearts, as mournful light That broods above the fallen sun, And dwells in heaven half the night. Vain solace! Memory, standing near, Cast down her eyes, and in her throat I wrote I know not what. In truth How should I soothe you anyway, For he too was a friend to me: Both are my friends, and my true breast Bleedeth for both; yet it may be That only silence suiteth best. Words weaker than your grief would make Grief more. "Twere better I should cease, Although myself could almost take The place of him that sleeps in peace. Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace: Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet. Sleep full of rest from head to feet; Tennyson. He who Died at Aşim. HE who died at Azim sends Faithful friends! It lies, I know, I can hear your sighs and prayers; Sweet friends! what the women lave, For the last sleep of the grave, Of the eagle, not the bars That kept him from those splendid stars. Loving friends! be wise and dry Straightway every weeping eye. What ye lift upon the bier Is not worth a single tear. 'Tis an empty sea-shell,- one The pearl, the all, the soul, is here. A mind that loved him; let it lie! In a perfect paradise, And a life that never dies. Farewell, friends! But not farewell: Where I am, ye, too, shall dwell. I am gone before your face A moment's worth, a little space. When ye come where I have stepped, Ye will wonder why ye wept; Ye will know, by true love taught, That here is all, and there is naught. Weep awhile, if ye are fain: Sunshine still must follow rain; Only not at death,- for death, Now we know, is that first breath Which our souls draw when we enter Life, which is of all life centre. Kiss her and leave her, thy love is clay." They smoothed her tresses of dark brown hair; With a tender touch they closed up well And over her bosom they crossed her hands,— But he who loved her too well to dread He lit his lamp, and took the key, And turned it. Alone again,- he and she. Then he said, "Cold lips and breast without breath, Is there no voice, no language of death? "See now, I listen with soul, not ear: What was the secret of dying, dear? "O perfect dead! O dead most dear! I hold the breath of my soul to hear. "There must be pleasure in dying, sweet, "I would tell you, darling, if I were dead, Who will believe what he heard her say, "The utmost wonder is this: I hear, "And am your angel, who was your bride, Edwin Arnold. Night and Beath. “MYSTERIOUS night! when our first parent knew And lo creation widened in man's view. Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed That to such countless orbs thou madest us blind! Blanco White. OH may I join the choir invisible Of those immortal dead who live again In minds made better by their presence live In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn For miserable aims that end with self, In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars, To make undying music in the world, ... Which martyred men have made more glorious |