I cannot tell, for I was far away,
By what slow course of gracious discipline,
Through gradual shades of unperceived decay,
As moonlight steals on fading summer day,
Her spiritual eye was trained to light divine.
But yet I trust she never knew the woe
Of body's waste, that brings despair and dearth Unto the soul; that living death, so slow,
That leaves to those that would yet would not go, No love of heaven, but weary hate of earth.
Nay, better, loving dearly to the last
All that she ever loved, with fond delay
The latest hour before her spirit past,
Prayed yet, though feeling that her lot was cast,
Like Jesus, that the cup might pass away.
HATH the vast ocean, that strange, humorous thing,
In all its depths or perilous banks a shell
That hath matured a pearl; let Ocean bring
That pearl to thee, and like some gentle spell
Which never witch or wicked wizard muttered,
But still hath dwelt in angel heart unuttered—
Mark on the pearl the sad, sweet word, farewell!
Hath the dead earth, dead now, but once alive
In every atom,—every pore and cell
Relics of life, or fated gems that strive
To be their proper selves, and pant and swell
Towards Light, the universal mediator,
And daily witness of the one Being greater,
Hath it aught sadder, sweeter, than farewell!
And hath the air-the always gracious air—
That ever fleeting yet would gladly dwell
For ever in the lowly voice of prayer-
Full loth, I ween, when ruder sounds compel
Its passive nature to unwilling madness;-
Hath air a joy so meek, so sweet a sadness,
As when she murmurs in a last farewell!
SUFFERING UNDER A RECENT BEREAVEMENT.
THINK not, my friend, my heart or hand are cold
Because I do not, and I cannot weep.
Too sudden was the knowledge of the woe,
And it requires some time, some thoughtful pause,
Ere we believe what but too well we know.
Some men are lessoned long in sorrow's school,
And serve a long apprenticeship to grief,
So, when the ill day comes, their minds are clad
In funeral garments. Death came here at once,
Like the sun's setting in the level sea;
No meek, pale warning, melancholy eve,
Weaned the fond eyesight from the joyous day;
'Twas full-orbed day, and then 'twas total night—
Sad night for us, but better day for her.
Well may'st thou mourn, but mourn not without hope :
Thou art not one, I know, that can believe
A pausing pulse, an intermitted breath,
Or aught that can to mortal flesh befal,
Can turn to nothing any way of God,
Or frustrate one good purpose of our Lord.
She was a purpose of the great Creator,
Begun on earth, and well on earth pursued,
Now in the heaven of heavens consummate,
Or happy waiting the predestined day,
The flower and glory of her consummation.
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