Here in an inn a stranger dwelt, The sojourner returns no more. Now of a lasting home possessed, Good-night! the night is cool and clear. Now open to us, gates of peace! For the new stranger who has come. How many graves around us lie! How many homes are in the sky! Yes, for each saint doth Christ prepare Thy home is waiting, brother, there. Passing Away. The fragrance of the rose, Whose dewy leaves in morning's light unclose, From its rich heart, as from an incense cup, Oh no! Thou didst not die! Thou hast but lain the soul's frail vesture by, F. Sachse. Death never comes to such With chillness in the mystery of his touch: As melts the morning star in golden day; They leave the places they have known below, We would not call thee back To the frail flowers that wither on our track, Pierced by the thorns that we so often meet: Why should we weep for thee When thy pure soul from every ill is free? For those, the loved, who linger still below, From whom the light of thy dear smile is fled, We know the gloomy grave Holds not the spirit which our Father gave; That made the sphere in which it moved so bright, Thou art not dead! For death Can only take away the mortal breath; And life, commencing here, Is but the prelude to its full career; And Hope and Faith the blest assurance give — "We do not live to die! We die to live!" Auld Lang Syne. It singeth low in every heart, A song of those who answer not, Anonymous. For far and wide on either hand There stretched a valley broad and fair, Who knows, I thought, but so 'twill prove It may not be as we have dreamed, God's-Acre. J. W. Chadwick. I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust. Comfort to those, who in the grave have sown The seed that they had garnered in their hearts, Their bread of life, alas! no more their own. Into its furrows shall we all be cast, In the sure faith that we shall rise again Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom, With that of flowers, which never bloomed on earth. With thy rude pioughshare, Death, turn up the sod, This is the place where human harvests grow! H.W.Longfellow. The wearer, not the garb, - the plume Of the falcon, not the bars Which kept him from those splendid stars. "Loving friends! be wise, and dry Straightway every weeping eye, Is not worth a wistful tear. 'Tis an empty sea-shell, one Out of which the pearl is gone; A mind that loved him; let it lie! |