I walk my parlor floor,

And, through the open door,

I hear a footfall on the chamber stair;

I'm stepping toward the hall

To give the boy a call;

And then bethink me that he is not there!

I know his face is hid

Under the coffin lid,

Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead fair;

Mv hand that marble felt;

O'er it in prayer I knelt;

Yet my heart whispers that

he is not there!

Not there! Where, then, is he?

The form I used to see

Was but the raiment that he used to wear.
The grave, that now doth press

Upon that cast-off dress,

Is but his wardrobe locked; he is not there!

He lives; nor to the last,

Of seeing him again will I despair;

In dreams I see him now;

And, on his angel brow,

I see it written, "Thou shalt see me there!"

Yes, we all live to God!

Father, thy chastening rod

So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear,

That, in the spirit land,

Meeting at thy right hand,

"Twill be our heaven to find that

- he is there.

John Pierpont.

The Morning-Glory,

We wreathed about our darling's head
The morning-glory bright;

Her little face looked out beneath

So full of life and light,

So lit, as with a sunrise,

That we could only say, "She is the morning-glory true, And her poor types are they."

And good thoughts where her footsteps pressed, Like fairy blossoms grew.