"I have seen the world's fair beauty; Now, beyond my two and three score, "For the face of her who loved me I have wrought the work God gave me, And O friends, who'd dare to keep him? "Better Off." "HE's better off." With words like these Kind friends their comfort try to speak. None doubts it of a man like him; Yet far off sound the words, and weak. The heart that loves is not content, How well soe'er the loved one be, To have him happy far away, But cries, "I want him still with me!" That other country may be fair, Brighter than aught the earth has shown, But better any place with him Than to be left here all alone. Thus pleads the heart that God has made,— For heaven without love could not be, The folded hands, the closing eyes, Two hearts that truly love is death. M. J. S. Since love is all the joy of life, In earth below or heaven above, Somewhere, we cannot help but trust, God keeps for us the ones we love. Like ships the storms drive far apart And meet there when the voyage is done. And as we tell the story o'er, How we were driven by the blast, More sweet will be those sunny hours By contrast with the sorrows past. Death's Lesson. FROM these closed eyes, and these white lips What, to the ear that silence hears, "Sweet friends, the words of love you wish "No more for me can you do aught, Save make the flowers bloom where I sleep; But hearts of living ones still ache, "Pour out on them the love and care You wish you could on me bestow: Then, when some other falls asleep, O'er vain regrets no tears shall flow." Death, then, would teach us how to live, How we shall die need give no care,— Live as we'll wish we had; and then Death's face becomes divinely fair. M. J. S. M. J. S A. R. C. WHEN falls the night upon the earth, The sun's not dead: his radiance still And when the dawn star groweth dim It still shines on, though earthly eyes, Some other world is glad to see The light whose going makes our night The feet that cease their walking here, The hand, whose patient fingers now Some higher ministry. The eyes, that give no longer back The tender look of love, Now, with a deathless gleam, drink in The lips whose sweet tones made us ask Though silent here, make heaven glad 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 while we grope our doubtful way, He reads the meaning of our grief We, heart-sore pilgrims, follow him: The night is short, the morning's dawn G. M. OH, what is all that can be done, Friends gather round and speak to me, I see them coming, but I hear Not his loved footfall on the floor. They clasp my hand in sympathy; Will look no more the love of old. O friends, your sympathy is dear, 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? M. J. S. |