I thought of Death. But did not think how near
That awful sound to its most awful meaning;
The babe that feels its mother's breast so near,
Slumbers and sucks and never dreams of weaning.

And even so we thought his honest face
Would ever greet us when we came again;
It seemed a natural product of the place,
Warmed by the sun and freshened by the rain.

But he is gone, the form we long have seen,
The vivid image that we bore away,
Is now a shadow of what once hath been,
The spectre of a body in decay.

The lake is there, the hills their distance keep,
The tall trees stand as if they mourned for ever,
But leave the widowed house alone to weep,

Nor seek the widowed heart from grief to sever.

For he is gone that was to us a smile,

An honest face to welcome when he came ; Short was the time, but yet a weary while

When Death was struggling with the shattered frame.

And many thoughts he had, as may be guessed,

And shows of earth that with the vision blended; Shows that at times perplexed, but later blessed The spirit equipped just ere the strife was ended.

Perhaps the latest object to employ

His parting thought upon the death-bed pillow, Was the dear image of his orphan boy,

With small foot challenging the frisky billow.

Whatever sight or sound possessed him last,
Whatever sound of nature tolled his knell,
Gentle the sounds and fair the forms that past
Before his closing eye, and all was well.

Yes, all was well, for 'twas the will of Him,

Who knows both when to sow and when to reap;

And now amid the smiling cherubim,

Beholds the tears of them he bad to weep.

False is the creed, because the heart is dead, That blames the widow's or the orphan's tear; Eyes that beheld the Lord full oft were red

With human sorrow while they tarried here.

Mourn, for 'tis good for all of us to mourn,

In this dark valley where our way we grope; Our very sorrow proves us not forlorn ;

We mourn, but not as mourners without hope.

The lake is still the same, the changeful skies
Change by a Law that we may not control,
Sage Nature is not bound to sympathise
With every passion of a single soul.

Look not for sorrow in the changeful skies, The mountain many-hued, or passive lake, But look to Him, who sometimes will chastise

Those whom he loves, but never will forsake.

ON THE LATE DR. ARNOLD.

SPIRIT of the Dead!

Though the pure faith of Him that was on earth
Thy subject and thy Lord forbids a prayer-
Forbids me to invoke thee as of yore :-

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(Weak souls, that dared not meet their God alone, 5
Sought countenance and kind companionship
Of some particular saint, whose knees had grazed
The very rock on which they knelt, whose blood
Had made or sanctified the gushing well,*
Round which their fond, mistaken piety
Had built a quaint confine of sculptured stone:-
Yet may I hope that wheresoe'er he is,
Beneath the altar, by the great white throne,
In Abraham's bosom, or amid the deep
Of Godhead, blended with eternal light,
One ray may reach him from the humble heart
That thanks our God for all that he has been.

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* Many of the holy wells are said to have sprung from the blood of Martyrs: for example, St. Winifred's in Wales.

What he is now we know not: he will be
A beautiful likeness of the God that gave
Him work to do, which he did do so well.
Whom Jesus loves, to them he gives the grace
For Him to do and suffer in the world;

To suffer for the world was His alone.

But he in whom we joyed-for whom we mourn-
Did he not suffer? Worldly men say, No!
Of ills which they call ill he had not many;
The poverty which makes the very poor
Begrudge a morsel to their very child,

Was never his; nor did he " pine in thought,"
Seeing the lady of his love possessed

By a much richer and no better man.

To him the lady of his love was wed,
Soon as his manhood authorised a wife;

And though the mother of his many babes,
To him she still was young, and fair, and fresh,
As when the golden ring slipp'd from his hand
Upon her virgin finger.

Yet he suffered

Such pains and throes as only good men feel :
For he assumed the task to rear the boy,
The bold, proud boy unto a Christian man.
'Twas not with childhood that he had to do,

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