No dear ones were her own peculiar care, And loving more the heart to give than lend, She had her joys: 'twas joy to live, to love, She had her griefs: but why recount them here, - Since every agony left peace behind, And healing came on every stormy wind, And with pure brightness every cloud was lined. And every loss sublimed some low desire, And every sorrow helped her to aspire, Till waiting angels bade her go up higher! Anonymous. En Harbor. I think it is over, over — I think it is over at last; Voices of foeman and lover, The sweet and the bitter have passed: Hath outblown its ultimate blast. There's but a faint sobbing seaward, The heavenly Harbor at last! I feel it is over, over The winds and the waters surcease: From the ravage of Life and its riot, Which bides in the Harbor at last? For the lights with their welcoming quiver I know it is over, over I know it is over at last : Down sail; the sheathed anchor uncover, Hath outblown its ultimate blast. There's but a faint sobbing seaward, The heavenly Harbor at last! Out of the Shadow. Paul H. Hayne. Gentle friends who gather here, Bid this weary frame oppressed And the spirit, freed from clay, When this sentient life began, Eagerly these eyes looked forth, Head and heart with schemes were rife, Longing for some noble strife, But the Father's love decreed And by ways unsought did lead; Turned aside the out-stretched hand, Bade the feet inactive stand, Checked the task that thought had planned; And on eyes that loved to gaze Upon light's intensest rays, How the musing spirit burned! Known, O Father, unto thee Of the soul at last set free; And how hard it was to see And to watch the reapers' throng, And to thee, O pitying God, All that still and sacred road, Where thy patience brought relief, Yet since thou hast stooped to say, "Come to larger life and power, To the dear ones gathered here And thy light shine round this bier. Pass Over to Thy Rest. From this bleak hill of storms, The rest of God! From hunger and from thirst, From toil and weariness, From shadows and from dreams, The rest of God! From weakness and from pain, The rest of God! From vanity and lies, From mockery and snares, Pass over to thy rest, Eliza Scudder. From unrealities, From hollow scenes of change, Pass over to thy rest, From this unanchored world, From all things restless here, H. Bonar. A Prisoner. If one had watched a prisoner many a year, His long imprisonment for life was done; Eternity's great freedom his release Had brought, yet they who loved him called him dead, And wept, refusing to be comforted. The Border-Lands. Father, into thy loving hands My feeble spirit I commit, While wandering in these Border-Lands, Father, I would not dare to choose H. H. |