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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.

To J. S.

God gives us love. Something to love

He lends us; but, when love is grown To ripeness, that on which it throve

Falls off, and love is left alone.

And though mine own eyes fill with dew,

Drawn from the spirit through the brain, I will not even preach to you, “Weep, weeping dulls the inward pain.”

I will not say “God's ordinance

Of death is blown in every wind;” For that is not a common chance

That takes away a noble mind.

Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace;

Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul,
While the stars burn, the moons increase,

And the great ages onward roll.

Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet,

Nothing comes to thee new or strange;
Sleep full of rest from head to feet;
Lie still, dry dust, secure of change.

Alfred Tennyson.

G. L. S.

He has done the work of a true man,

Crown him, honor him, love him. Weep over him, tears of woman,

Stoop, manliest brows, above him !

For the warmiest of hearts is frozen,

The freest of hands is still;
And the gap in our picked and chosen

The long years may not fill.

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.

Ah, well ! — The world is discreet;

There are plenty to pause and wait;
But here was a man who set his feet

Sometimes in advance of fate:

Never rode to the wrong's redressing

A worthier paladin;
Shall he not hear the blessing,
" Good and faithful, enter in!”

J. G. Whittier.

A Memorial
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 overpriced 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. IVhittier.

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 feeting 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;
“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.

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