The Friend's Burial.

Her still and quiet life flowed on
As meadow streamlets flow,
Where fresher green reveals alone
The noiseless ways they go.

Her path shall brighten more and more
Unto the perfect day;

She cannot fail of peace who bore
Such peace with her away.

O sweet, calm face, that seemed to wear
The look of sins forgiven!

O voice of prayer, that seemed to bear
Our own needs up to heaven!

How reverent in our midst she stood,
Or knelt in grateful praise!

What grace of Christian womanhood
Was in her household ways!

For still her holy living meant
No duty left undone;

The heavenly and the human blent
Their kindred loves in one.

She kept her line of rectitude
With love's unconscious ease:
Her kindly instincts understood
All gentle courtesies.

The dear Lord's best interpreters
Are humble human souls;

The Gospel of a life like hers

Is more than books or scrolls.

From scheme and creed the light goes out,

The saintly fact survives;

The blessed Master none can doubt

Revealed in holy lives.

J. G. Whittier.

No duty could overtask him,
No need his will outrun;
Or ever our lips could ask him,
His hands the work had done.

He forgot his own soul for others,

Himself to his neighbor lending;

He found the Lord in his suffering brothers,
And not in the clouds descending.

Oh, thicker, deeper, darker growing,
The solemn vista to the tomb
Must know henceforth another shadow,
And give another cypress room.

To homely joys and loves and friendships
Thy genial nature fondly clung;

And so the shadow on the dial

Ran back and left thee always young.

And who could blame the generous weakness,
Which, only to thyself unjust,

So overprized the worth of others,

And dwarfed thy own with self-distrust?

All hearts grew warmer in the presence
Of one who, seeking not his own,
Gave freely for the love of giving,
Nor reaped for self the harvest sown.

Thy greeting smile was pledge and prelude
Of generous deeds and kindly words;
In thy large heart were fair guest-chambers,
Open to sunrise and the birds!

The task was thine to mould and fashion
Life's plastic newness into grace;

To make the boyish heart heroic,

And light with thought the maiden's face.

O'er all the land in town and prairie,
With bended heads of mourning, stand
The living forms that owe their beauty
And fitness to thy shaping hand.

O friend! if thought and sense avail not
To know thee henceforth as thou art,
That all is well with thee forever

I trust the instincts of my heart.

Thine be the quiet habitations,

Thine the green pastures, blossom-sown,
And smiles of saintly recognition

As sweet and tender as thy own.

Thou com'st not from the hush and shadow
To meet us, but to thee we come ;
With thee we never can be strangers,
And where thou art must still be home.

J. G. Whittier.

E. S. G.

"At eve there shall be light," the promise runs
In the dear volume that he loved so well;

Ay, and for him the promise was fulfilled,
When rang for him the solemn vesper-bell.

His was no day of sweet, unsullied blue,

And bright, warm sunshine on the grass and flowers;

But many a cloud of loss and grief and pain

Dropped its deep shadow on the fleeting hours.

For still, though hours were his, serene and still,
And radiant hours of steady glowing noon,
That cloud of pain was ever near to touch
With quivering sadness every brightest boon.

And, as his afternoon drew on to eve

And still he lingered in the whitened field,
The reapers were so few, till night should fall
Fain would his hand the heavy sickle wield, —

Darker it grew and darker o'er the land,
And he was forced to lay the sickle by;
But did it brighten, then his hand was quick
To seize once more its opportunity.

So the day faded, and the evening came;

Then from the sky the clouds were furled away,
And a great peace and beauty welcomed in
The evening star with her benignant ray.

And all the air was hushed and whispering,
And all the sky was purely, softly bright;
And so the blessed promise was fulfilled;

66

'At eve," it said, — " at eve there shall be light."

But that fair evening did not end in night,

With shadows deep, and darkness all forlorn,
Just at its brightest he was snatched away
Into the golden palaces of morn.

And surely since the Master went that way,

To welcome there earth's holiest and best, He has not welcomed one who loved him more Than he who leaned that evening on his breast. J. W. Chadwick.

En Memory of the Lady Augusta Stanley.

O blessed life of service and of love!

Heart wide as life, deep as life's deepest woe; God's servants serve him day and night above,

Thou servedst day and night, we thought, below.