Counts thy sad honours, coffin, bier, and pall; relics of a trail love lost,

So many

So many tokens dear

Of endless love begun.

Listen! it is no dream: th' Apostles' trump Gives earnest of th' Archangel's; calmly now Our hearts yet beating high

To that victorious lay

Most like a warrior's to the martial dirge
Of a true comrade, in the grave we trust
Our treasure for a while:

And if a tear steal down,

If human anguish o'er the shaded brow
Pass shuddering, when the handful of pure earth
Touches the coffin lid :

If at our brother's name

Once and again the thought, 'for ever gone,' Come o'er us like a cloud; yet, gentle spright, Thou turnest not away,

Thou knowest us calm at heart.

One look, and we have seen our last of thee
Till we too sleep and our long sleep be o'er
O cleanse us, ere we view

That countenance pure again,

THOU who canst change the heart, and raise the dead!
AS THOU art by to soothe our parting hour,

Be ready when we meet,

With thy dear pardoning words.

JOHN KEBLE.

A VOICE FROM AFAR.

EEP not for me ;

WEE

Be blithe as wont, nor tinge with gloom

The stream of love that circles home,
Light hearts and free!

Joy in the gifts Heaven's bounty lends ;
Nor miss my face, dear friends!

I still am near ;

Watching the smiles I prized on earth,
Your converse mild, your blameless mirth;
Now too I hear

Of whispered sounds the tale complete,
Low prayers, and musings sweet.

A sea before

The Throne is spread; its pure, still glass
Pictures all earth-scenes as they pass.
We, on its shore,

Share, in the bosom of our rest,

God's knowledge, and are blest!

JOHN HENRY NEWMAN.

SAD

TO A FRIEND.

AD soul, whom God, resuming what He gave,
Medicines with bitter anguish of the tomb,
Cease to oppress the portals of the grave,
And strain thy aching sight across the gloom.
The surged Atlantic's winter-beaten wave
Shall sooner pierce the purpose of the wind
Than thy storm-tost and heavy-swelling mind
Grasp the full import of his means to save.
Through the dark night lie still; God's faithful grace
Lies hid, like morning, underneath the sea.
Let thy slow hours roll, like these weary stars,
Down to the level ocean patiently;

Till his loved hand shall touch the Eastern bars,
And his full glory shine upon thy face.

WILLIAM CALDWELL ROSCOE.

I

MAY AND DEATH.

WISH that when you died last May,
Charles, there had died along with you
Three parts of Spring's delightful things;
Ay, and, for me, the fourth part too.

A foolish thought, and worse, perhaps !
There must be many a pair of friends
Who, arm in arm, deserve the warm

Moon-births and the long evening-ends.

So, for their sake, be May still May!
Let their new time, as mine of old,
Do all it did for me: I bid

Sweet sights and sounds throng manifold.

Only, one little sight, one plant

Woods have in May, that starts up green Save a sole streak which, so to speak,

Is Spring's blood, spilt its leaves between,—

That, they might spare; a certain wood
Might miss the plant; their loss were small :
But I,-whene'er the leaf grows there,
Its drop comes from my heart, that's all.

ROBERT BROWNING.

AN ANNIVERSARY.

I.

TWO years ago, this day, he died ;

In silence to the grave he stole ;

To many friends their joy and pride,—
To me the brother of my soul.

Then died their hopes and were not seen,
But still our love, it seems to me,

Survives, though something hangs between-
A haze-a dim perplexity;

Perplexity that gathers still

Veil over veil, fold upon fold;

Like mists of rain about a lonely hill

Round me that cloud contracts or is unrolled.

Come often intimations, as it were,

He still were somewhere dwelling on the earth; Some look that of his beauty hath a share,

Some laugh that hath a sound of his delicious mirth!

II.

If I no more behold thy face

I know thou art not lost; I know Christ keeps thee in a safer place, And I at heart would have it so.

I murmur not. O soul above,

'Tis not my voice thou hearest groan; 'Tis sin that counterfeits my love,

I but for weakness moan.

But no, thou hast a finer ear,

And thou, I trust-'tis more than I dare say,

Discern'st the joyful spirit singing clear

Even in this miserable house of clay.

III.

Year after misty year comes forth,

And old things flee and new arrive;

And still he lingers on the earth

My friend is still alive.