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Nothing is so completely beyond the power of death as a noble love. Parting can shatter only its outward shell. Under that strange touch, love in its inmost recesses kindles and glows with a divine fire. Whom of the living do we love as we love our dead? Whom else do we hold so sacredly and so surely? Not as a memory of a lost past, -nothing in our present is so real as they, and toward our unknown future we go with a great and solemn gladness, beckoned by their presence. Geo. S. Merriam.

Do not say

This is the change that comes. We are not afraid any more of our - Father.

We are noi all happy. But if he says go, you will know that it is well, and you will not be afraid. You know it is the Father. God, that is far off He is our Father.

And the little Pilgrim's voice echoed away through the great firmament to other worlds. And it breathed over the earth like some one saying Courage ! to those whose hearts were failing; and it dropped down into the great confusion and traffic of the land of darkness, and startled many, like the voice of a child calling and calling, and never ceasing, Come! and come ! and come! - Mrs. Oliphant.

The leaves, though thick, are falling: one by one

Decayed they drop from off their parent tree;
Their work with Autumn's latest day is done, -

Thou see'st them borne upon the breezes free.
They lie strewn here and there, their many dyes

That yesterday so caught thy passing eye;
Soiled by the rain, each leaf neglected lies,

Upon the path where now thou hurriest by.

Yet think thee not their beauteous tints less fair

Than when they hung so gayly o'er thy head; But rather find thee eyes, and look thee there

Where now thy feet so heedless o'er them tread, And thou shalt see, where wasting now they lie,

The unseen hues of immortality. Jones Very.




A Chant.
Benedictus qui venit in nomine Domini.
Who is the Angel that cometh?

Let us not question what he brings,

Peace or strife ;
Under the shade of his mighty wings,

One by one,
Are his secrets told;

One by one,
Lit by the rays of each morning's sun,

Shall a new flower its petals unfold,

With the mystery hid in its heart of gold. We will arise and go forth to greet him,

Singly, gladly, with one accord, —

“ Blessed is he that cometh In the name of the Lord ! ”

Who is the Angel that cometh?

Let us arise and go forth to greet him;

Not in vain
Is the summons come for us to meet him;

He will stay,
And darken our sun;

He will stay
A desolate night, a weary day.

Since in that shadow our work is done,

And in that shadow our crowns are won,
Let us say still while his bitter chalice

Slowly into our hearts is poured,

“ Blessed is he that cometh In the name of the Lord !”

Who is the Angel that cometh?

But do not shudder and do not fear;

Hold your breath,
For a kingly presence is drawing near,

Cold and bright
Is his flashing steel,

Cold and bright
The smile that comes like a starry light

To calm the terror and grief we feel ;

He comes to help and to save and to heal : Then let us, baring our hearts and kneeling,

Sing, while we wait this Angel's sword,

“ Blessed is he that cometh In the name of the Lord !”

Adelaide Procter.

De Profundís.
The face which, duly as the sun,
Rose up for me with life begun,
To mark all bright hours of the day
With hourly love, is dimmed away,

And yet my days go on, go on.
The tongue which, like a stream, could run
Smooth music from the roughest stone,
And every morning with “Good day”
Make each day good, is hushed away,

And yet my days go on, go on.
The heart which, like a staff, was one
For mine to lean and rest upon ;
The strongest on the longest day
With steadfast love, is caught away, —

And yet my days go on, go on.
And cold before my summer's done,
And deaf in Nature's general tune,
And fallen too low for special fear,
And here, with hope no longer here,

While the tears drop, my days go on.

This Nature, though the snows be down,
Thinks kindly of the bird of June :
The little red hip on the tree
Is ripe for such.

What is for me,
Whose days so winterly go on?

I ask less kindness to be done, –
Only to loose these pilgrim shoon,
(Too early worn and grimed) with sweet,
Cool, deathly touch to these tired feet,

Till days go out which now go on.

A Voice reproves me thereupon,
More sweet than Nature's when the drone
Of bees is sweetest, and more deep
Than when the rivers overleap

The shuddering pines, and thunder on.

God's Voice, not Nature's. Night and noon
He sits upon the great white throne
And listens for the creature's praise.
What babble we of days and days?

The Day-spring he, whose days go 1.

He reigns above, he reigns alone ;
Systems burn out and leave his throne:
Fair mists of seraphs melt and fall
Around him, changeless amid all, –

Ancient of days, whose days go on.
For us, – whatever's undergone,
Thou knowest, willest what is done.
Grief may be joy misunderstood;
Only the Good discerns the good.

I trust thee while my days go on.

Whatever's lost, it first was won :
We will not struggle nor impugn,
Perhaps the cup was broken here
That Heaven's new wine might show more clear.

I praise thee while my days go on.

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