So may this darksome time build up in me
A thousand graces which shall thus be thine;
So may my love and longing hallowed be,
And thy dear thought an influence divine.

Frances Anne Kemble.

The Angel of Death.

Why shouldst thou fear the beautiful angel, Death,
Who waits thee at the portals of the skies,
Ready to kiss away thy struggling breath,
Ready with gentle hand to close thine eyes?

How many a tranquil soul has passed away,
Fled gladly from fierce pain and pleasure's din,
To the eternal splendor of the day;

And many a troubled heart still calls for him.

Spirits too tender for the battle here

Have turned from life, its hopes, its fears, its charms; And children, shuddering at a world so drear,

Have smiling passed away into his arms.

He whom thou fearest will, to ease its pain,
Lay his cold hand upon thy aching heart:
Will soothe the terrors of thy troubled brain,
And bid the shadows of earth's grief depart.

He will give back what neither time, nor might, Nor passionate prayer, nor longing hope restore, (Dear as to long blind eyes recovered sight,)

He will give back those who are gone before.

Oh, what were life, if life were all? Thine eyes
Are blinded by their tears, or thou wouldst see
Thy treasures wait thee in the far-off skies,

And Death, thy friend, will give them all to thee.

A. A. Procter.

The God of the Living.

God of the living, in whose eyes
Unveiled thy whole creation lies!
All souls are thine; we must not say
That those are dead who pass away;
From this our world of flesh set free,
We know them living unto thee.

Released from earthly toil and strife,
With thee is hidden still their life;

Thine are their thoughts, their words, their powers,
All thine, and yet most truly ours;

For well we know, where'er they be,
Our dead are living unto thee.

Not spilt like water on the ground,
Not wrapt in dreamless sleep profound,
Not wandering in unknown despair
Beyond thy voice, thine arm, thy care;
Not left to lie like fallen tree;
Not dead, but living unto thee.

O Breather into man of breath!
O Holder of the keys of death!
O Giver of the life within!

Save us from death, the death of sin,

That body, soul, and spirit be

For ever living unto thee!

John Ellerton.

The Silent Land.

Into the Silent Land!

Ah! who shall lead us thither?

Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather,
And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand.
Who leads us with a gentle hand

Thither, O thither,

Into the Silent Land!

Το

Into the Silent Land!

you, ye boundless regions

Of all perfection! Tender morning visions

Of beauteous souls! The Future's pledge and band!
Who in life's battle firm doth stand,

Shall bear Hope's tender blossoms
Into the Silent Land!

O Land! O Land!

For all the broken-hearted

The mildest herald by our fate allotted,
Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand
To lead us with a gentle hand
To the land of the great Departed,

What can we bear beyond the unknown portal?
No gold, no gains

Of all our toiling in the life immortal

No hoarded wealth remains,

Nor gilds, nor stains.

Naked from out that far abyss behind us

We entered here:

No word came with our coming, to remind us
What wondrous world was near,

No hope, no fear.

Into the silent, starless night before us,

Naked we glide:

No hand has mapped the constellations o'er us,

No comrade at our side,

No chart, no guide.

Yet fearless toward the midnight black and hollow,

Our footsteps fare:

The beckoning of a Father's hand we follow

His love alone is there,

No curse, no care.

E. R. Sill.

From the German of Leopold Schefer

All that God wounds he constantly is healing,
Quietly, gently, softly, but most surely ;

He helps the lowliest herb, with wounded stalk,
To rise again.

Deep in the treasure-house of wealthy Nature,

A ready instinct works and moves

To clothe the naked sparrow in the nest,

Or trim the plumage of an aged raven;

Yes, in the slow decaying of a rose,

God works as well as in the unfolding bud;

He works with gentleness unspeakable

In Death itself; a thousand times more careful

Than even the mother by her sick child watching.

The Choir Invisible.

Oh may I join the choir invisible

Of those immortal dead who live again

In minds made better by their presence; live

In pulses stirred to generosity,

In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn

Of miserable aims that end in self,

In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars,
And with their mild persistence urge men's minds
To vaster issues.

So to live is heaven:

To make undying music in the world,
Breathing as beauteous order, that controls
With growing sway the growing life of man.

This is life to come,

Which martyred men have made more glorious
For us who strive to follow. May I reach
That purest heaven; be to other souls
The cup of strength in some great agony;
Enkindle generous ardor; feed pure love;
Beget the smiles that have no cruelty;
Be the sweet presence of a good diffused,
And in diffusion ever more intense.
So shall I join the choir invisible,

Whose music is the gladness of the world.

Life.

Life! I know not what thou art,

But know that thou and I must part;

And when, or how, or where we met,

I own to me's a secret yet.

Life! we've been long together,

George Eliot.

Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; 'Tis hard to part when friends are dear,— Perhaps 't will cost a sigh, a tear;

Then steal away, give little warning,

Choose thine own time;

Say not Good Night,— but in some brighter clime
Bid me Good Morning.

En Memoriam.

Farewell! since nevermore for thee

Anna L. Barbauld.

The sun comes up our eastern skies,
Less bright henceforth shall sunshine be
To some fond hearts and saddened eye
There are, who for thy last, long sleep,
Shall sleep as sweetly nevermore;
Shall weep because thou canst not weep,
And grieve that all thy griefs are o'er.

R. J.