Chapter VI: Consolation (1)

THE ANGEL OF PATIENCE.

A FREE PARAPHRASE OF THE GERMAN.

To weary hearts, to mourning homes, God's meekest Angel gently comes: No power has he to banish pain, Or give us back our lost again; And yet in tenderest love our dear And heavenly Father sends him here.

There's quiet in that Angel's glance, There's rest in his still countenance! He mocks no grief with idle cheer, Nor wounds with words the mourner's ear; But ills and woes he may not cure He kindly trains us to endure.

Angel of Patience! sent to calm Our feverish brows with cooling palm; To lay the storms of hope and fear, And reconcile life's smile and tear; The throbs of wounded pride to still, And make our own our Father's will!

O thou who mournest on thy way, With longings for the close of day; He walks with thee, that Angel kind, And gently whispers, "Be resigned: Bear up, bear on, the end shall tell The dear Lord ordereth all things well!"

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

THEY ARE ALL GONE.

They are all gone into the world of light,
And I alone sit lingering here!
Their very memory is fair and bright,
And my sad thoughts doth clear;

It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,
Like stars upon some gloomy grove,--
Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest
After the sun's remove.

I see them walking in an air of glory,
Whose light doth trample on my days,--
My days which are at best but dull and hoary,
Mere glimmering and decays.

O holy hope! and high humility,--
High as the heavens above!
These are your walks, and you have showed them me
To kindle my cold love.

Dear, beauteous death,--the jewel of the just,--
Shining nowhere but in the dark!
What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,
Could man outlook that mark!

He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may know,
At first sight, if the bird be flown;
But what fair dell or grove he sings in now,
That is to him unknown.

And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams
Call to the soul when man doth sleep,
So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,
And into glory peep.

If a star were confined into a tomb,
Her captive flames must needs burn there,
But when the hand that locked her up gives room,
She'll shine through all the sphere.

O Father of eternal life, and all
Created glories under thee!
Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall
Into true liberty.

Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill
My perspective still as they pass;
Or else remove me hence unto that hill
Where I shall need no glass.

HENRY VAUGHAN.

THE BOTTOM DRAWER.

In the best chamber of the house,
Shut up in dim, uncertain light,
There stood an antique chest of drawers,
Of foreign wood, with brasses bright.
One day a woman, frail and gray,
Stepped totteringly across the floor--
"Let in," said she, "the light of day,
Then, Jean, unlock the bottom drawer."

The girl, in all her youth's loveliness,
Knelt down with eager, curious face;
Perchance she dreamt of Indian silks,
Of jewels, and of rare old lace.
But when the summer sunshine fell
Upon the treasures hoarded there,
The tears rushed to her tender eyes,
Her heart was solemn as a prayer.

"Dear Grandmamma," she softly sighed,
Lifting a withered rose and palm;
But on the elder face was naught
But sweet content and peaceful calm.
Leaning upon her staff, she gazed
Upon a baby's half-worn shoe;
A little frock of finest lawn;
A hat with tiny bows of blue;

A ball made fifty years ago;
A little glove; a tasselled cap;
A half-done "long division" sum;
Some school-books fastened with a strap.
She touched them all with trembling lips--
"How much," she said, "the heart can bear!
Ah, Jean! I thought that I should die
The day that first I laid them there.

"But now it seems so good to know
That through these weary, troubled years
Their hearts have been untouched by grief,
Their eyes have been unstained by tears.
Dear Jean, we see with clearer sight
When earthly love is almost o'er;
Those children wait me in the skies,
For whom I locked that sacred drawer."

AMELIA EDITH BARR.

OVER THE RIVER.

Over the river they beckon to me,
Loved ones who've crossed to the farther side,
The gleam of their snowy robes I see,
But their voices are lost in the dashing tide.
There's one with ringlets of sunny gold,
And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue;
He crossed in the twilight gray and cold,
And the pale mist hid him from mortal view.
We saw not the angels who met him there,
The gates of the city we could not see:
Over the river, over the river,
My brother stands waiting to welcome me.

Over the river the boatman pale
Carried another, the household pet;
Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale,
Darling Minnie! I see her yet.
She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands,
And fearlessly entered the phantom bark;
We felt it glide from the silver sands,
And all our sunshine grew strangely dark;
We know she is safe on the farther side,
Where all the ransomed and angels be:
Over the river, the mystic river,
My childhood's idol is waiting for me.

For none returns from those quiet shores,
Who cross with the boatman cold and pale;
We hear the dip of the golden oars,
And catch a gleam of the snowy sail;
And lo! they have passed from our yearning hearts,
They cross the stream and are gone for aye.
We may not sunder the veil apart
That hides from our vision the gates of day;
We only know that their barks no more
May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea;
Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore,
They watch, and beckon, and wait for me.

And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold
Is flushing river and hill and shore,
I shall one day stand by the water cold,
And list for the sound of the boatman's oar;
I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail,
I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand,
I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale,
To the better shore of the spirit land.
I shall know the loved who have gone before,
And joyfully sweet will the meeting be,
When over the river, the peaceful river,
The angel of death shall carry me.

NANCY WOODBURY PRIEST.

GRIEF FOR THE DEAD.

O hearts that never cease to yearn!
O brimming tears that ne'er are dried!
The dead, though they depart, return
As though they had not died!

The living are the only dead;
The dead live,--nevermore to die;
And often, when we mourn them fled,
They never were so nigh!

And though they lie beneath the waves,
Or sleep within the churchyard dim,
(Ah! through how many different graves
God's children go to him!)--

Yet every grave gives up its dead
Ere it is overgrown with grass;
Then why should hopeless tears be shed,
Or need we cry, "Alas"?

Or why should Memory, veiled with gloom,
And like a sorrowing mourner craped,
Sit weeping o'er an empty tomb,
Whose captives have escaped?

'Tis but a mound,--and will be mossed
Whene'er the summer grass appears;
The loved, though wept, are never lost;
We only lose--our tears!

Nay, Hope may whisper with the dead
By bending forward where they are;
But Memory, with a backward tread,
Communes with them afar.

The joys we lose are but forecast,
And we shall find them all once more;
We look behind us for the Past,
But lo! 'tis all before!

ANONYMOUS.

THE TWO WAITINGS.

I.

Dear hearts, you were waiting a year ago
For the glory to be revealed;
You were wondering deeply, with bated breath,
What treasure the days concealed.

O, would it be this, or would it be that?
Would it be girl or boy?
Would it look like father or mother most?
And what should you do for joy?

And then, one day, when the time was full,
And the spring was coming fast,
The tender grace of a life outbloomed,
And you saw your baby at last.

Was it or not what you had dreamed?
It was, and yet it was not;
But O, it was better a thousand times
Than ever you wished or thought.

II.

And now, dear hearts, you are waiting again,
While the spring is coming fast;
For the baby that was a future dream
Is now a dream of the past:

A dream of sunshine, and all that's sweet;
Of all that is pure and bright;
Of eyes that were blue as the sky by day,
And as clear as the stars by night.

You are waiting again for the fulness of time,
And the glory to be revealed;
You are wondering deeply with aching hearts
What treasure is now concealed.

O, will she be this, or will she be that?
And what will there be in her face
That will tell you sure that she is your own,
When you meet in the heavenly place?

As it was before, it will be again,
Fashion your dream as you will;
When the veil is rent, and the glory is seen,
It will more than your hope fulfil.

JOHN WHITE CHADWICK.

FOR CHARLIE'S SAKE.

The night is late, the house is still; The angels of the hour fulfil Their tender ministries, and move From couch to couch in cares of love. They drop into thy dreams, sweet wife, The happiest smile of Charlie's life, And lay on baby's lips a kiss, Fresh from his angel-brother's bliss; And, as they pass, they seem to make A strange, dim hymn, "For Charlie's sake."

My listening heart takes up the strain, And gives it to the night again, Fitted with words of lowly praise, And patience learned of mournful days, And memories of the dead child's ways. His will be done, His will be done! Who gave and took away my son, In "the far land" to shine and sing Before the Beautiful, the King, Who every day does Christmas make, All starred and belled for Charlie's sake.

For Charlie's sake I will arise; I will anoint me where he lies, And change my raiment, and go in To the Lord's house, and leave my sin Without, and seat me at his board, Eat, and be glad, and praise the Lord. For wherefore should I fast and weep, And sullen moods of mourning keep? I cannot bring him back, nor he, For any calling, come to me. The bond the angel Death did sign, God sealed--for Charlie's sake, and mine.

I'm very poor--this slender stone Marks all the narrow field I own; Yet, patient husbandman, I till With faith and prayers, that precious hill, Sow it with penitential pains, And, hopeful, wait the latter rains; Content if, after all, the spot Yield barely one forget-me-not-- Whether or figs or thistle make My crop content for Charlie's sake.

I have no houses, builded well-- Only that little lonesome cell, Where never romping playmates come, Nor bashful sweethearts, cunning-dumb-- An April burst of girls and boys, Their rainbowed cloud of glooms and joys Born with their songs, gone with their toys; Nor ever is its stillness stirred By purr of cat, or chirp of bird, Or mother's twilight legend, told Of Horner's pie, or Tiddler's gold, Or fairy hobbling to the door, Red-cloaked and weird, banned and poor, To bless the good child's gracious eyes, The good child's wistful charities, And crippled changeling's hunch to make Dance on his crutch, for good child's sake.

How is it with the child? 'Tis well; Nor would I any miracle Might stir my sleeper's tranquil trance, Or plague his painless countenance: I would not any seer might place His staff on my immortal's face. Or lip to lip, and eye to eye, Charm back his pale mortality. No, Shunamite! I would not break God's stillness. Let them weep who wake.

For Charlie's sake my lot is blest: No comfort like his mother's breast, No praise like hers; no charm expressed In fairest forms hath half her zest. For Charlie's sake this bird's caressed That death left lonely in the nest; For Charlie's sake my heart is dressed, As for its birthday, in its best; For Charlie's sake we leave the rest. To Him who gave, and who did take, And saved us twice, for Charlie's sake.

JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER.

WATCHING FOR PAPA.

She always stood upon the steps
Just by the cottage door,
Waiting to kiss me when I came
Each night home from the store.
Her eyes were like two glorious stars,
Dancing in heaven's own blue--
"Papa," she'd call like a wee bird,
"_I's looten out for oo!_"

Alas! how sadly do our lives
Change as we onward roam!
For now no birdie voice calls out
To bid me welcome home.
No little hands stretched out for me,
No blue eyes dancing bright,
No baby face peeps from the door
When I come home at night.

And yet there's comfort in the thought
That when life's toil is o'er,
And passing through the sable flood
I gain the brighter shore,
My little angel at the gate,
With eyes divinely blue,
Will call with birdie voice, "Papa,
_I's looten out for oo!_"

ANONYMOUS.

MY CHILD.

I cannot make him dead!
His fair sunshiny head
Is ever bounding round my study chair;
Yet when my eyes, now dim
With tears, I turn to him,
The vision vanishes,--he is not there!

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 thread the crowded street;
A satchelled lad I meet,
With the same beaming eyes and colored hair;
And, as he's running by,
Follow him with my eye,
Scarcely believing that--he is not there!

I know his face is hid
Under the coffin lid;
Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead fair;
My hand that marble felt;
O'er it in prayer I knelt;
Yet my heart whispers that--he is not there!

I cannot make him dead!
When passing by the bed,
So long watched over with parental care,
My spirit and my eye
Seek him inquiringly,
Before the thought comes, that--he is not there!

When, at the cool gray break
Of day, from sleep I wake.
With my first breathing of the morning air
My soul goes up, with joy,
To Him who gave my boy;
Then comes the sad thought that--he is not there!

When at the day's calm close,
Before we seek repose,
I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer;
Whate'er I may be saying,
I am in spirit praying
For our boy's spirit, though--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!--In all the past
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.

SONG.

She's somewhere in the sunlight strong,
Her tears are in the falling rain,
She calls me in the wind's soft song,
And with the flowers she comes again.

Yon bird is but her messenger,
The moon is but her silver car;
Yea! sun and moon are sent by her,
And every wistful waiting star.

RICHARD LE GALLIENNE.

THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS.

There is a Reaper whose name is Death,
And, with his sickle keen,
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between.

"Shall I have naught that is fair?" saith he;
"Have naught but the bearded grain?--
Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,
I will give them all back again."

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,
He kissed their drooping leaves;
It was for the Lord of Paradise
He bound them in his sheaves.

"My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,"
The Reaper said, and smiled;
"Dear tokens of the earth are they,
Where he was once a child.

"They shall all bloom in fields of light,
Transplanted by my care,
And saints, upon their garments white,
These sacred blossoms wear."

And the mother gave, in tears and pain,
The flowers she most did love;
She knew she should find them all again
In the fields of light above.

O, not in cruelty, not in wrath,
The Reaper came that day;
'Twas an angel visited the green earth,
And took the flowers away.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

"ONLY A YEAR."

One year ago,--a ringing voice,
A clear blue eye,
And clustering curls of sunny hair,
Too fair to die.

Only a year,--no voice, no smile,
No glance of eye,
No clustering curls of golden hair,
Fair but to die!

One year ago,--what loves, what schemes
Far into life!
What joyous hopes, what high resolves,
What generous strife!

The silent picture on the wall,
The burial-stone,
Of all that beauty, life, and joy,
Remain alone!

One year,--one year,--one little year,
And so much gone!
And yet the even flow of life
Moves calmly on.

The grave grows green, the flowers bloom fair,
Above that head;
No sorrowing tint of leaf or spray
Says he is dead.

No pause or hush of merry birds
That sing above
Tells us how coldly sleeps below
The form we love.

Where hast thou been this year, beloved?
What hast thou seen,--
What visions fair, what glorious life,
Where hast thou been?

The veil! the veil! so thin, so strong!
'Twixt us and thee;
The mystic veil! when shall it fall,
That we may see?

Not dead, not sleeping, not even gone,
But present still,
And waiting for the coming hour
Of God's sweet will.

Lord of the living and the dead,
Our Saviour dear!
We lay in silence at thy feet
This sad, sad year.

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.

BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN.

Oh, deem not they are blest alone
Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep;
The Power who pities man, has shown
A blessing for the eyes that weep.

The light of smiles shall fill again
The lids that overflow with tears;
And weary hours of woe and pain
Are promises of happier years.

There is a day of sunny rest
For every dark and troubled night;
And grief may bide an evening guest,
But joy shall come with early light.

And thou, who o'er thy friend's low bier
Dost shed the bitter drops like rain,
Hope that a brighter, happier sphere
Will give him to thy arms again.

Nor let the good man's trust depart,
Though life its common gifts deny,--
Though with a pierced and bleeding heart,
And spurned of men, he goes to die.

For God hath marked each sorrowing day
And numbered every secret tear,
And heaven's long age of bliss shall pay
For all his children suffer here.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

DE PROFUNDIS.

The face which, duly as the sun, Rose up for me with life begun, To mark all bright hours of the day With daily love, is dimmed away-- And yet my days go on, go on.

The tongue which, like a stream, could run Smooth music from the roughest stone, And every morning with "Good day" Make each day good, is hushed away-- And yet my days go on, go on.

The heart which, like a staff, was one For mine to lean and rest upon, The strongest on the longest day, With steadfast love is caught away-- And yet my days go on, go on.

The world goes whispering to its own, "This anguish pierces to the bone." And tender friends go sighing round, "What love can ever cure this wound?" My days go on, my days go on.

The past rolls forward on the sun And makes all night. O dreams begun, Not to be ended! Ended bliss! And life, that will not end in this! My days go on, my days go on.

Breath freezes on my lips to moan: As one alone, once not alone, I sit and knock at Nature's door, Heart-bare, heart-hungry, very poor, Whose desolated days go on.

I knock and cry--Undone, undone! Is there no help, no comfort--none? No gleaning in the wide wheat-plains Where others drive their loaded wains? My vacant days go on, go on.

This Nature, though the snows be down, Thinks kindly of the bird of June. The little red hip on the tree Is ripe for such. What is for me, Whose days so winterly go on?

No bird am I to sing in June, And dare not ask an equal boon. Good nests and berries red are Nature's To give away to better creatures-- And yet my days go on, go on.

_I_ ask less kindness to be done-- Only to loose these pilgrim-shoon (Too early worn and grimed) with sweet Cool deathly touch to these tired feet, Till days go out which now go on.

Only to lift the turf unmown From off the earth where it has grown, Some cubit-space, and say, "Behold, Creep in, poor Heart, beneath that fold, Forgetting how the days go on."

A Voice reproves me thereupon, More sweet than Nature's, when the drone Of bees is sweetest, and more deep Than when the rivers overleap The shuddering pines, and thunder on.

God's Voice, not Nature's--night and noon He sits upon the great white throne, And listens for the creature's praise. What babble we of days and days? The Dayspring he, whose days go on!

He reigns above, he reigns alone: Systems burn out and leave his throne: Fair mists of seraphs melt and fall Around him, changeless amid all-- Ancient of days, whose days go on!

He reigns below, he reigns alone-- And having life in love forgone Beneath the crown of sovran thorns, He reigns the jealous God. Who mourns Or rules with HIM, while days go on?

By anguish which made pale the sun, I hear him charge his saints that none Among the creatures anywhere Blaspheme against him with despair, However darkly days go on.

Take from my head the thorn-wreath brown: No mortal grief deserves that crown. O supreme Love, chief misery, The sharp regalia are for _Thee_, Whose days eternally go on!

For us, ... whatever's undergone, Thou knowest, willest what is done. Grief may be joy misunderstood: Only the Good discerns the good. I trust Thee while my days go on.

Whatever's lost, it first was won! We will not struggle nor impugn. Perhaps the cup was broken here That Heaven's new wine might show more clear. I praise Thee while my days go on.

I praise Thee while my days go on; I love Thee while my days go on! Through dark and dearth, through fire and frost, With emptied arms and treasure lost, I thank thee while my days go on!

And, having in thy life-depth thrown Being and suffering (which are one), As a child drops some pebble small Down some deep well, and hears it fall Smiling--so I! THY DAYS GO ON!

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

BLESSED ARE THEY.

To us across the ages borne,
Comes the deep word the Master said:
"Blessèd are they that mourn;
They shall be comforted!"

Strange mystery! It is better then
To weep and yearn and vainly call,
Till peace is won from pain,
Than not to grieve at all!

Yea, truly, though joy's note be sweet,
Life does not thrill to joy alone.
The harp is incomplete
That has no deeper tone.

Unclouded sunshine overmuch
Falls vainly on the barren plain;
But fruitful is the touch
Of sunshine after rain!

Who only scans the heavens by day
Their story but half reads, and mars;
Let him learn how to say,
"The night is full of stars!"

We seek to know Thee more and more,
Dear Lord, and count our sorrows blest,
Since sorrow is the door
Whereby Thou enterest.

Nor can our hearts so closely come
To Thine in any other place,
As where, with anguish dumb,
We faint in Thine embrace.

ROSSITER WORTHINGTON RAYMOND.

LINES

TO THE MEMORY OF "ANNIE," WHO DIED AT MILAN, JUNE 6, 1860.

"Jesus saith unto her, Woman, why weepest thou? whom seekest
thou? She, supposing him to be the gardener, saith unto him,
Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast
laid him."--JOHN xx. 15.

In the fair gardens of celestial peace
Walketh a gardener in meekness clad;
Fair are the flowers that wreathe his dewy locks,
And his mysterious eyes are sweet and sad.

Fair are the silent foldings of his robes,
Falling with saintly calmness to his feet;
And when he walks, each floweret to his will
With living pulse of sweet accord doth beat.

Every green leaf thrills to its tender heart,
In the mild summer radiance of his eye;
No fear of storm, or cold, or bitter frost,
Shadows the flowerets when their sun is nigh.

And all our pleasant haunts of earthly love
Are nurseries to those gardens of the air;
And his far-darting eye, with starry beam,
Watching the growing of his treasures there.

We call them ours, o'erwept with selfish tears,
O'erwatched with restless longings night and day;
Forgetful of the high, mysterious right
He holds to bear our cherished plants away.

But when some sunny spot in those bright fields
Needs the fair presence of an added flower,
Down sweeps a starry angel in the night:
At morn the rose has vanished from our bower.

Where stood our tree, our flower, there is a grave!
Blank, silent, vacant; but in worlds above,
Like a new star outblossomed in the skies,
The angels hail an added flower of love.

Dear friend, no more upon that lonely mound,
Strewed with the red and yellow autumn leaf,
Drop thou the tear, but raise the fainting eye
Beyond the autumn mists of earthly grief.

Thy garden rosebud bore within its breast
Those mysteries of color, warm and bright,
That the bleak climate of this lower sphere
Could never waken into form and light.

Yes, the sweet Gardener hath borne her hence,
Nor must thou ask to take her thence away;
Thou shalt behold her, in some coming hour,
Full blossomed in his fields of cloudless day.

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.

DEATH IN YOUTH.

FROM "FESTUS."

For to die young is youth's divinest gift; To pass from one world fresh into another, Ere change hath lost the charm of soft regret, And feel the immortal impulse from within Which makes the coming life cry always, On! And follow it while strong, is heaven's last mercy. There is a fire-fly in the south, but shines When on the wing. So is't with mind. When once We rest, we darken. On! saith God to the soul, As unto the earth for ever. On it goes, A rejoicing native of the infinite, As is a bird, of air; an orb, of heaven.

PHILIP JAMES BAILEY.

IN MEMORIAM F.A.S.

Yet, O stricken heart, remember, O remember
How of human days he lived the better part.
April came to bloom and never dim December
Breathed its killing chills upon the head or heart.
Doomed to know not winter, only spring, a being
Trod the flowery April blithely for a while,
Took his fill of music, joy of thought and seeing,
Came and stayed and went, nor ever ceased to smile.

Came and stayed and went, and now when all is finished,
You alone have crossed the melancholy stream,
Yours the pang, but his, O his, the undiminished
Undecaying gladness, undeparted dream.

All that life contains of torture, toil, and treason,
Shame, dishonor, death, to him were but a name.
Here, a boy, he dwelt through all the singing season
And ere the day of sorrow departed as he came.

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

Davos, 1881.

TEARS.

Thank God, bless God, all ye who suffer not More grief than ye can weep for. That is well-- That is light grieving! lighter, none befell, Since Adam forfeited the primal lot. Tears! what are tears? The babe weeps in its cot, The mother singing; at her marriage bell The bride weeps; and before the oracle Of high-faned hills, the poet has forgot Such moisture on his cheeks. Thank God for grace, Ye who weep only! If, as some have done, Ye grope tear-blinded in a desert place, And touch but tombs,--look up! Those tears will run Soon in long rivers down the lifted face, And leave the vision clear for stars and sun.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

RESIGNATION.

There is no flock, however watched and tended,
But one dead lamb is there!
There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,
But has one vacant chair!

The air is full of farewells to the dying,
And mournings for the dead;
The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,
Will not be comforted!

Let us be patient! These severe afflictions
Not from the ground arise,
But oftentimes celestial benedictions
Assume this dark disguise.

We see but dimly through the mists and vapors;
Amid these earthly damps
What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers
May be heaven's distant lamps.

There is no death! What seems so is transition:
This life of mortal breath
Is but a suburb of the life elysian,
Whose portal we call Death.

She is not dead,--the child of our affection,--
But gone unto that school
Where she no longer needs our poor protection,
And Christ himself doth rule.

In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion,
By guardian angels led,
Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution,
She lives whom we call dead.

Day after day we think what she is doing
In those bright realms of air;
Year after year, her tender steps pursuing,
Behold her grown more fair.

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken
The bond which nature gives,
Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken,
May reach her where she lives.

Not as a child shall we again behold her;
For when with raptures wild
In our embraces we again enfold her,
She will not be a child:

But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion,
Clothed with celestial grace;
And beautiful with all the soul's expansion
Shall we behold her face.

And though, at times, impetuous with emotion
And anguish long suppressed,
The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean,
That cannot be at rest,--

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling
We may not wholly stay;
By silence sanctifying, not concealing,
The grief that must have way.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

CHRISTUS CONSOLATOR.

Beside the dead I knelt for prayer,
And felt a presence as I prayed.
Lo! it was Jesus standing there.
He smiled: "Be not afraid!"

"Lord, Thou hast conquered death we know;
Restore again to life," I said,
"This one who died an hour ago."
He smiled: "She is not dead!"

"Asleep then, as thyself did say;
Yet thou canst lift the lids that keep
Her prisoned eyes from ours away!"
He smiled: "She doth not sleep!"

"Nay then, tho' haply she do wake,
And look upon some fairer dawn,
Restore her to our hearts that ache!"
He smiled: "She is not gone!"

"Alas! too well we know our loss,
Nor hope again our joy to touch,
Until the stream of death we cross."
He smiled: "There is no such!"

"Yet our beloved seem so far,
The while we yearn to feel them near,
Albeit with Thee we trust they are."
He smiled: "And I am here!"

"Dear Lord, how shall we know that they
Still walk unseen with us and Thee,
Nor sleep, nor wander far away?"
He smiled: "Abide in Me."

ROSSITER WORTHINGTON RAYMOND.

COMFORT.

Speak low to me, my Saviour, low and sweet From out the hallelujahs, sweet and low, Lest I should fear and fall, and miss thee so Who art not missed by any that entreat. Speak to me as Mary at thy feet-- And if no precious gums my hands bestow, Let my tears drop like amber, while I go In reach of thy divinest voice complete In humanest affection--thus in sooth, To lose the sense of losing! As a child Whose song-bird seeks the woods forevermore, Is sung to instead by mother's mouth; Till, sinking on her breast, love-reconciled, He sleeps the faster that he wept before.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

THE SECRET OF DEATH.

"She is dead!" they said to him; "come away; Kiss her and leave her,--thy love is clay!"

They smoothed her tresses of dark brown hair; On her forehead of stone they laid it fair;

Over her eyes that gazed too much They drew the lids with a gentle touch;

With a tender touch they closed up well The sweet thin lips that had secrets to tell;

About her brows and beautiful face They tied her veil and her marriage-lace,

And drew on her white feet her white silk shoes-- Which were the whitest no eye could choose!

And over her bosom they crossed her hands. "Come away!" they said; "God understands!" And there was silence, and nothing there But silence, and scents of eglantere,

And jasmine, and roses, and rosemary; And they said, "As a lady should lie, lies she."

And they held their breath till they left the room, With a shudder, to glance at its stillness and gloom.

But he who loved her too well to dread The sweet, the stately, the beautiful dead,

He lit his lamp and took the key And turned it. Alone again--he and she!

He and she; but she would not speak, Though he kissed, in the old place, the quiet cheek.

He and she; yet she would not smile, Though he called her the name she loved ere-while.

He and she; still she did not move To any one passionate whisper of love.

Then he said: "Cold lips, and breasts without breath, Is there no voice, no language of death,

"Dumb to the ear and still to the sense, But to heart and to soul distinct, intense?

"See now; I will listen with soul, not ear; What was the secret of dying, dear?

"Was it the infinite wonder of all That you ever could let life's flower fall?

"Or was it a greater marvel to feel The perfect calm o'er the agony steal?

"Was the miracle greater to find how deep Beyond all dreams sank downward that sleep?

"Did life roll back its records, dear, And show, as they say it does, past things clear?

"And was it the innermost heart of the bliss To find out, so, what a wisdom love is?

"O perfect dead! O dead most dear, I hold the breath of my soul to hear!

"I listen as deep as to horrible hell, As high as to heaven, and you do not tell.

"There must be pleasure in dying, sweet, To make you so placid from head to feet!

"I would tell you, darling, if I were dead, And 'twere your hot tears upon my brow shed,--

"I would say, though the angel of death had laid His sword on my lips to keep it unsaid.

"You should not ask vainly, with streaming eyes, Which of all death's was the chiefest surprise,

"The very strangest and suddenest thing Of all the surprises that dying must bring."

Ah, foolish world! O, most kind dead! Though he told me, who will believe it was said?

Who will believe that he heard her say, With a sweet, soft voice, in the dear old way:

"The utmost wonder is this,--I hear, And see you, and love you, and kiss you, dear;

"And am your angel, who was your bride, And know that, though dead, I have never died."

SIR EDWIN ARNOLD.

PEACE.

There is the peace that cometh after sorrow,
Of hope surrendered, not of hope fulfilled;
A peace that looketh not upon to-morrow,
But calmly on a tempest that is stilled.

A peace which lives not now in joy's excesses,
Nor in the happy life of love secure,
But in the unerring strength the heart possesses,
Of conflicts won, while learning to endure.

A peace-there is, in sacrifice secluded,
A life subdued, from will and passion free;
'Tis not the peace that over Eden brooded,
But that which triumphed in Gethsemane.

ANONYMOUS.

FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS.

When the hours of day are numbered,
And the voices of the night
Wake the better soul that slumbered
To a holy, calm delight,--

Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
And, like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful firelight
Dance upon the parlor wall;

Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door,--
The beloved ones, the true-hearted,
Come to visit me once more:

He, the young and strong, who cherished
Noble longings for the strife,
By the roadside fell and perished,
Weary with the march of life!

They, the holy ones and weakly,
Who the cross of suffering bore,
Folded their pale hands so meekly,
Spake with us on earth no more!

And with them the being beauteous
Who unto my youth was given,
More than all things else to love me,
And is now a saint in heaven.

With a slow and noiseless footstep,
Comes that messenger divine,
Takes the vacant chair beside me,
Lays her gentle hand in mine;

And she sits and gazes at me
With those deep and tender eyes,
Like the stars, so still and saint-like,
Looking downward from the skies.

Uttered not, yet comprehended,
Is the spirit's voiceless prayer,
Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,
Breathing from her lips of air.

O, though oft depressed and lonely,
All my fears are laid aside
If I but remember only
Such as these have lived and died!

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

HAPPY ARE THE DEAD.

I walked the other day, to spend my hour,
Into a field,
Where I sometimes had seen the soil to yield
A gallant flower:
But winter now had ruffled all the bower
And curious store
I knew there heretofore.

Yet I, whose search loved not to peep and peer
In the face of things,
Thought with myself, there might be other springs
Beside this here,
Which, like cold friends, sees us but once a year;
And so the flower
Might have some other bower.

Then taking up what I could nearest spy,
I digged about
That place where I had seen him to grow out;
And by and by
I saw the warm recluse alone to lie,
Where fresh and green
He lived of us unseen.

Many a question intricate and rare
Did I there strow;
But all I could extort was, that he now
Did there repair
Such losses as befell him in this air,
And would erelong
Come forth most fair and young.

This past, I threw the clothes quite o'er his head;
And, stung with fear
Of my own frailty, dropped down many a tear
Upon his bed;
Then, sighing, whispered, _Happy are the dead!
What peace doth now
Rock him asleep below!_

And yet, how few believe such doctrine springs
From a poor root
Which all the winter sleeps here under foot,
And hath no wings
To raise it to the truth and light of things,
But is still trod
By every wandering clod!

O thou whose spirit did at first inflame
And warm the dead!
And by a sacred incubation fed
With life this frame,
Which once had neither being, form, nor name!
Grant I may so
Thy steps track here below,

That in these masks and shadows I may see
Thy sacred way;
And by those hid ascents climb to that day
Which breaks from thee,
Who art in all things, though invisibly:
Show me thy peace,
Thy mercy, love, and ease.

And from this care, where dreams and sorrows reign,
Lead me above,
Where light, joy, leisure, and true comforts move
Without all pain:
There, hid in thee, show me his life again
At whose dumb urn
Thus all the year I mourn.

HENRY VAUGHAN.

THE GREEN GRASS UNDER THE SNOW.

The work of the sun is slow, But as sure as heaven, we know; So we'll not forget, When the skies are wet, There's green grass under the snow.

When the winds of winter blow, Wailing like voices of woe, There are April showers, And buds and flowers, And green grass under the snow.

We find that it's ever so In this life's uneven flow; We've only to wait, In the face of fate, For the green grass under the snow.

ANNIE A. PRESTON.

THE CONQUEROR'S GRAVE.

Within this lowly grave a Conqueror lies, And yet the monument proclaims it not, Nor round the sleeper's name hath chisel wrought The emblems of a fame that never dies, Ivy and amaranth in a graceful sheaf, Twined with the laurel's fair, imperial leaf. A simple name alone, To the great world unknown, Is graven here, and wild flowers, rising round, Meek meadow-sweet and violets of the ground, Lean lovingly against the humble stone.

Here, in the quiet earth, they laid apart
No man of iron mould and bloody hands,
Who sought to wreck upon the cowering lands
The passions that consumed his restless heart:
But one of tender spirit and delicate frame,
Gentlest in mien and mind,
Of gentle womankind,
Timidly shrinking from the breath of blame;
One in whose eyes the smile of kindness made
Its haunt, like flowers by sunny brooks in May,
Yet, at the thought of others' pain, a shade
Of sweeter sadness chased the smile away.

Nor deem that when the hand that molders here Was raised in menace, realms were chilled with fear, And armies mustered at the sign, as when Clouds rise on clouds before the rainy East, Gray captains leading bands of veteran men And fiery youths to be the vulture's feast. Not thus were raged the mighty wars that gave The victory to her who fills this grave; Alone her task was wrought, Alone the battle fought; Through that long strife her constant hope was staid On God alone, nor looked for other aid.

She met the hosts of sorrow with a look That altered not beneath the frown they wore, And soon the lowering brood were tamed, and took, Meekly, her gentle rule, and frowned no more. Her soft hand put aside the assaults of wrath, And calmly broke in twain The fiery shafts of pain, And rent the nets of passion from her path. By that victorious hand despair was slain. With love she vanquished hate and overcame Evil with good, in her Great Master's name.

Her glory is not of this shadowy state, Glory that with the fleeting season dies; But when she entered at the sapphire gate What joy was radiant in celestial eyes! How heaven's bright depths with sounding welcomes rung, And flowers of heaven by shining hands were flung! And He who, long before, Pain, scorn, and sorrow bore, The Mighty Sufferer, with aspect sweet, Smiled on the timid stranger from his seat; He who returning, glorious, from the grave, Dragged Death, disarmed, in chains, a crouching slave.

See, as I linger here, the sun grows low;
Cool airs are murmuring that the night is near.
Oh gentle sleeper, from thy grave I go
Consoled though sad, in hope and yet in fear.
Brief is the time, I know,
The warfare scarce begun;
Yet all may win the triumphs thou hast won.
Still flows the fount whose waters strengthened thee;
The victors' names are yet too few to fill
Heaven's mighty roll; the glorious armory,
That ministered to thee, is open still.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

THOU ART GONE TO THE GRAVE.

Thou art gone to the grave--but we will not deplore thee,
Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb;
The Saviour has passed through its portals before thee,
And the lamp of His love is thy guide through the gloom.

Thou art gone to the grave--we no longer behold thee,
Nor tread the rough path of the world by thy side;
But the wide arms of mercy are spread to enfold thee,
And sinners may hope, since the Sinless has died.

Thou art gone to the grave--and, its mansion forsaking,
Perhaps thy tried spirit in doubt lingered long,
But the sunshine of heaven beamed bright on thy waking,
And the song which thou heard'st was the seraphim's song.

Thou art gone to the grave--but 't were wrong to deplore thee,
When God was thy ransom, thy guardian, thy guide;
He gave thee, and took thee, and soon will restore thee,
Where death hath no sting, since the Saviour hath died.

REGINALD HEBER.

LYCIDAS.