All mourners, one with dying breath,
We sate and talk'd of Jesus' death.

Once more I came: the silent room
Was veil'd in sadly-soothing gloom,
And ready for her last abode
The pale form like a lily show'd,
By virgin fingers duly spread,

And priz❜d for love of summer fled.
The light from those soft-smiling eyes
Had fleeted to its parent skies.

O sooth us, haunt us, night and day,
Ye gentle Spirits far away,

With whom we shar'd the cup of

grace,

Then parted; ye to Christ's embrace,
We to the lonesome world again,
Yet mindful of th' unearthly strain
Practis'd with you at Eden's door,
To be sung on, where angels soar,
With blended voices evermore.

BURIAL OF THE DEAD.

And when the Lord saw her, He had compassion on her, and said unto her, Weep not. And He came and touched the bier: and they that bare him stood still. And He said, Young man, I say unto thee, Arise. St. Luke vii. 13, 14.

WHO says, the wan autumnal sun

Beams with too faint a smile

To light up nature's face again,

And, though the year be on the wane,

With thoughts of spring the heart beguile ?

Waft him, thou soft September breeze,

And gently lay him down

Within some circling woodland wall,

Where bright leaves, reddening ere they fall,
Wave gaily o'er the waters brown.

And let some graceful arch be there
With wreathed mullions proud,

With burnish'd ivy for its screen,
And moss, that glows as fresh and green
As though beneath an April cloud.—

Who says the widow's heart must break,
The childless mother sink?—

A kinder truer voice I hear,

Which even beside that mournful bier

Whence parents' eyes would hopeless shrink,

Bids weep no more—O heart bereft,
How strange, to thee, that sound!

A widow o'er her only son,
Feeling more bitterly alone

For friends that press officious round.

Yet is the voice of comfort heard,
For Christ hath touch'd the bier-
The bearers wait with wondering eye,

The swelling bosom dares not sigh,
But all is still, 'twixt hope and fear.

Even such an awful soothing calm
We sometimes see alight

On Christian mourners, while they wait
In silence, by some church-yard gate,
Their summons to the holy rite.

And such the tones of love, which break
The stillness of that hour,

Quelling th' embitter'd spirit's strife-
"The Resurrection and the Life

"Am I believe, and die no more.".

Unchang'd that voice-and though not yet
The dead sit up and speak,
Answering its call; we gladlier rest

Our darlings on earth's quiet breast,

And our hearts feel they must not break.

Far better they should sleep awhile

Within the church's shade,

Nor wake, until new heaven, new earth,

Meet for their new immortal birth

For their abiding place be made,

Than wander back to life, and lean
On our frail love once more.

Ꮓ

'Tis sweet, as year by year we lose Friends out of sight, in faith to muse How grows in Paradise our store.

Then pass, ye mourners, cheerly on,
Through prayer unto the tomb,
Still, as ye watch life's falling leaf,
Gathering from every loss and grief
Hope of new spring and endless home.

Then cheerly to your work again
With hearts new-brac'd and set
To run, untir'd, love's blessed race,
As meet for those, who face to face

Over the grave their Lord have met.