Nor looks to see the breaking day And Love can never lose its own. Whittier. Gone. ANOTHER hand is beckoning us, Another call is given; And glows once more with angel-steps The light of her young life went down, The glory of a setting star,- As pure and sweet, her fair brow seemed And like the brook's low song, her voice,- And half we deemed she needed not To give to heaven a Shining One, The blessing of her quiet life Fell on us like the dew; And good thoughts, where her footsteps pressed, Like fairy blossoms grew. There seems a shadow on the day, Her smile no longer cheers; A dimness on the stars of night, Like eyes that look through tears. Alone unto our Father's will One thought hath reconciled: That He whose love exceedeth ours Fold her, O Father, in thine arms, And let her henceforth be A messenger of love between Our human hearts and thee. Still let her mild rebuking stand And grant that she who, trembling, here May welcome to her holier home The well-beloved of ours. John G. Whittier. The Angel of Patience. TO WEARY hearts, to mourning homes, There's quiet in that Angel's glance; Angel of Patience, sent to calm Our feverish brows with cooling palm; O thou who mournest on thy way, After the Burial. YES, faith is a goodly anchor : But after the shipwreck, tell me Still true to the broken hawser Deep down among the sea-weed and ooze? Console if you will; I can bear it: It is pagan: but wait till you feel it,— Communion in spirit? Forgive me; That little shoe in the corner, To a Friend after the Loss of a Child. AFTER our child's untroubled breath And on our home the shade of death And friends came round, with us to weep The story of the Alpine sheep Was told to us by one we love. They, in the valley's sheltering care, Soon crop the meadow's tender prime, And when the sod grows brown and bare The shepherd strives to make them climb To airy shelves of pasture green, That hang along the mountain's side, Where grass and flowers together lean, And down through mists the sunbeams slide. But nought can tempt the timid things Though sweet the shepherd calls and sings, Till in his arms their lambs he takes, Then, heedless of the rifts and breaks, And in those pastures, lifted fair, More dewy soft than lowland mead, The shepherd drops his tender care, And sheep and lambs together feed. Lowell This parable, by nature breathed, A blissful-vision, through the night, Holding our little lamb asleep, Maria Lowell. The Old Man's Funeral. I SAW an aged man upon his bier; His hair was thin and white, and on his brow A record of the cares of many a year, Cares that were ended and forgotten now. And there was sadness round, and faces bowed, And woman's tears fell fast, and children wailed aloud. Then rose another hoary man, and said, In faltering accents to that weeping train: "Why mourn ye that our aged friend is dead? Ye are not sad to see the gathered grain, Nor when their mellow fruit the orchards cast, "Ye sigh not when the sun, his course fulfilled,— His glorious course, rejoicing earth and sky,— O'er the warm-colored heaven and ruddy mountain-head. 66 Why weep ye then for him, who, having won Lingers, like twilight hues when the bright sun is set? |