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The fragrance of the rose,
Goes not more sweetly up
Than thy freed spirit from its earthly shrine
Oh no! Thou didst not die !
And soared to that pure height
And where the discipline of mortal woe
Death never comes to such
They gently pass away
They leave the places they have known below,
We would not call thee back
Perhaps to have thy feet
For thou art in that fairer world than ours
Why should we weep for thee
Our only tears should flow
From whom the light of thy dear smile is fled,
We know the gloomy grave
That loving, lustrous light,
Is shining with a clear and quenchless flame,
Thou art not dead! For death
And life, commencing here,
Auld Lang Syne.
We hear it, each and all,
However we may call;
They throng the silence of the breast,
We see them as of yore, –
Who walk with us no more!
'Tis hard to take the burden up,
When these have laid it down;
They softened every frown ;
When we are troubled sore !
Though they are here no more !
More homelike seems the vast unknown,
Since they have entered there;
Wherever they may fare ;
On any sea or shore;
J. W. Chadwick.
The Other Side. Climbing the mountain's shaggy crest,
I wondered much what sight would greet
My eager gaze whene'er my feet Upon the topmost height should rest.
The other side was all unknown;
But, as I slowly toiied along,
Sweeter to me than any song My dream of visions to be shown.
At length the topmost height was gained;
The other side was full in view;
My dreams not one of them was true, But better far had I attained.
For far and wide on either hand
There stretched a valley broad and fair,
With greenness flashing everywhere,
Upon that mountain-top of death,
Where we shall draw diviner breath,
It may not be as we have dreamed,
Not half so awful, strange, and grand;
A quiet, peaceful, home-like land,
J. W. Chadwick.
The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just;
And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.
God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts
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
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.
Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,
In the fair gardens of that second birth; And each bright blossom mingle its perfume
With that of flowers, which never bloomed on earth.
With thy rude pioughshare, Death, turn up the sod,
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow;
H. W. Longfellow.
After Death in Arabia.
He who died at Azan sends
Faithful friends! it lies, I know,
It was mine, it is not I.”
For the last sleep of the grave,
Which kept him from those splendid stars. “Loving friends! be wise, and dry
Straightway every weeping eye,