I lean my heart unto thee, sadly folding Thy hand in mine; With even the weakness of my soul upholding The strength of thine. I never knew, like thee, the dear departed; I stood not by When, in calm trust, the pure and tranquil-hearted Lay down to die. And on thy ears my words of weak condoling Must vainly fall : The funeral bell which in thy heart is tolling, Sounds over all! I will not mock thee with the poor world's conimon And heartless phrase, Nor wrong the memory of a sainted woman With idle praise. With silence only as their benediction, God's angels come Where, in the shadow of a great affliction, The soul sits dumb! Yet, would I say what thy own heart approveth: Our Father's will, Calling to Him the dear one whom He loveth, Is mercy still. Not upon thee or thine the solemn angel Hath evil wrought: Her funeral anthem is a glad evangel The good die not! God calls our loved ones, but we lose not wholly What He hath given; They live on earth, in thought and deed, as truly As in his heaven. And she is with thee; in thy path of trial She walketh yet; Still with the baptism of thy self-denial Her locks are wet. Up, then, my brother! Lo, the fields of harvest Lie white in view! She lives and loves thee, and the God thou servest To both is true. Thrust in thy sickle!-England's toil-worn peasants Thy call abide; And she thou mourn'st, a pure and holy presence, Shall glean beside ! GONE. ANOTHER hand is beckoning us, And glows once more with Angel-steps Our young and gentle friend whose smile No paling of the cheek of bloom The light of her young life went down, The glory of a setting star Clear, suddenly, and still. As pure and sweet, her fair brow seemed And like the brook's low song, her voice- And half we deemed she needed not The blessing of her quiet life Fell on us like the dew; And good thoughts, where her footsteps pressed Like fairy blossoms grew. Sweet promptings unto kindest deeds The measure of a blessed hymn, We miss her in the place of prayer, There seems a shadow on the day, Alone unto our Father's will One thought hath reconciled; That He whose love exceedeth ours Hath taken home his child. Fold her, oh Father! in thine arms, Still let her mild rebuking stand And grant that she who, trembling, here THE LAKE-SIDE. THE shadows round the inland sea They ey chase the lessening light. Lake of the Hills! where, cool and sweet, Thy sunset waters lie! Along the sky, in wavy lines, So seemed it when yon hill's red crown, And, through the sunset air, looked down No forest sceptic taught; Their living and eternal Cause He saw these mountains in the light His loving voice he heard, Man stood before the Lord. Thanks, oh, our Father! that, like him, For not in mockery dost Thou fill THE HILL-TOP. THE burly driver at my side, |