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Enough that blessings undeserved
Have marked my erring track ;
His chastening turned me back;
That more and more a Providence
Of love is understood,
Sweet with eternal good;
That death seems but a covered way
Which opens into light,
Beyond the Father's sight;
That care and trial seem at last,
Through Memory's sunset air,
In purple distance fair;
That all the jarring notes of life
Seem blending in a psalm,
Slow rounding into calm.
And so the shadows fall apart,
And so the west winds play ;
J. G. Whittier.
Death of a Sister.
I will not mock thee with the poor world's common
And heartless phrase,
With idle praise.
With silence only as their benediction,
God's angels come
The soul sits dumb !
Yet would I say what thy own heart approveth;
Our Father's will,
Is mercy still.
God calls our loved ones, but we lose not wholly
What he hath given;
As in his heaven.
Up, then, my brother! Lo, the fields of harvest
Lie white in view !
J. G. Whittier.
A GOOD LIFE.
from the “Elegy on the Death of Dr. Channing."
I do not come to weep above thy pall,
And mourn the dying out of noble powers ; The poet's clearer eye should see, in all
Earth's seeming woe, the seed of Heaven's flowers.
Truth needs no champions : in the infinite deep
Of everlasting Soul her strength abides; From Nature's heart her mighty pulses leap,
Through Nature's veins her strength, undying, tides.
Peace is more strong than war, and gentleness,
Where force were vain, makes conquest o'er the wave; And love lives on and hath a power to bless,
When they who loved are hidden in the grave.
No power can die that ever wrought for Truth;
Thereby a law of Nature it became, And lives unwithered in its sinewy youth,
When he who called it forth is but a name.
Therefore I cannot think thee wholly gone;
The better part of thee is with us still ;
And only freer wrestles with the Ill.
Thou livest in the life of all good things ;
What words thou spak'st for Freedom shall not die ; Thou sleepest not, for now thy Love hath wings To soar where hence thy Hope could hardly fly.
And often, from that other world, on this
Some gleams from great souls gone before may shine, To shed on struggling hearts a clearer bliss,
And clothe the Right with lustre more divine.
Thy spirit bends itself to loving tasks,
Heaven's wide chambers, there is room
To life more vain than this in clayey weeds.
Farewell! good man, good angel now! this hand
Soon, like thine own, shall lose its cunning too; Soon shall this soul, like thine, bewildered stand,
Then leap to thread the free, unfathomed blue.
This laurel-leaf I cast upon thy bier;
Let worthier hands than these thy wreath entwine;
J. R. Lowell,
The Lady of La Garaye.
F. D. B.
To pass through life beloved as few are loved,
How few like thine, the pilgrim feet have come
And love, that guides where wintry tempests beat,
And so that radiant path, all sweet and pure,
But wrapped in trance of holy thought and prayer,
In the far North, where, over frosts and gloom,
So, in the region of thy fearless faith,