And the resurrection's power "Gone is gone, and dead is dead." Lizzie Doten. Child with the Snowy Cheek. CHILD with the snowy cheek, Child with the stainless brow, Thy white-robed form and look so meek Are as an angel's now. Death's mystery hath cast Its strangeness o'er thy face, But the angel marred not as he passed One line of its tender grace. He but folded the waxen hands, Sent sleep on the gladsome eyes, And wrapped thee round with the viewless bands Of death's great, still surprise. Now into the upper life, Into realms of infinite peace, Thou hast entered at once, untouched by the strife That comes with our life's increase. Into the infinite love, Into the cloudless light, Into the welcome that waited above, Below thee, the storm and night. Saved from the toilsome way We travel with weary feet, From the bitterness hid in the cup alway, Whose first taste is so sweet. The base and the unkind, The cruel and the untrue, Soiling and stain of the deathless mind, For you there is gladness and rest Where the little ones of earth, Wandering and playing, make musical mirth By the soft-flowing river of God. But we! In a world of pain, We linger and weep and wait; And we strive in vain any glimpse to gain Of thee and the Beautiful Gate. For the gate that is gold to thee, Golden and jewelled and bright, Is wrapped in a gloom on the side we see,Its sentinels, Fear and Night. But the gate of gloom and of gold Will open to us some day, On hinges of silence backward rolled; And Fear will vanish away. And Night into Morning will change, As the light of the Land comes out, And a rapture, sudden and sweet and strange, Succeed to our trouble and doubt. Oh, blessed and strong and sweet The hope of that coming time, When thy welcoming hands our hands shall meet In the gate of the Life Sublime; In the gate of the City of God; In the gate of the Infinite Peace; In the sweet dawn-light that shall shine abroad O'er the fields of our love's increase. W. H. Sav Love cannot die: eternity Shall keep your sacred trust, be sure; Look onward! High above the tomb W. H. Savage. The Finished Life. THERE'S a beauty of the spring-time But there is no less of beauty When the leaves turn gold and brown If the rough hand of the tempest Who can wonder if one grieves? But when off the autumn branches Here the old man by the fireside Backward looks through tender tears, And he says, "With wife and children Trod I long and happy years." As he sitteth by the window |