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With my first breathing of the morning air

My soul goes up, with joy,

To Him who gave my boy, Then comes the sad thought that-he is not there!

When at the day's calm close,

Before we seek repose,
I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer,

Whate'er I may be saying,

I am, in spirit, praying
For our boy's spirit, though-he is not there!

Not there! Where, then, is he?

The form I used to see
Was but the raiment that he used to wear;

The grave, that now doth press

Upon that cast-off dress,
Is but his wardrobe lock'd ;-he is not there!

He lives! In all the past

He lives ; nor, to the last,
Of seeing him again will I despair ;

In dreams I see him now;

And, on his angel brow,
I see it written, “ Thou shalt see me there!

Yes, we all live to God!

Father, thy chastening rod
So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear,

That, in the spirit-land,

Meeting at thy right hand, 'Twill be our heaven to find that-he is there!

John PIERPONT.

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A FORM, MAJESTIC, STOOD WITHIN MY ROOM,"

The strength of his lithe limbs seemed measureless;
The courage of his loving, brave, young heart
Was like a star, undimmed by cloud or storm.
And I had said,-1,-in my dull, blind way,
"I shall be never lonely, never sad.”

One day,--the sun shone bright, -I know not why,
A piercèd hand knocked at my vine-clad door,
A form, majestic, stood within my room.
Alas! I knew that voice, those tear-dimmed eyes,
And trembled. But my child, pressed to his side,
Followed the tender calling, and has gone.

And now my boy, my little boy, knows more
Than poets dream, or wisest teachers tell.
No mortal eyes can see what his have seen,
No ear can catch the music that he hears.
For he, whose mirth filled all my quiet house,
Is standing with the singing seraphim;
But I am blinded with these rushing tears
To think that he is there,—and I am here.

MARY S. BACON.

THE RECONCILIATION.

As thro' the land at eve we went,

And pluck'd the ripen'd ears,
We fell out, my wife and I,
We fell out-I know not why-

And kiss'd again with tears.
And blessings on the falling-out

That all the more endears,
When we fall out with those we love

And kiss again with tears !
For when we came where lies the child

We lost in other years,

There above the little grave,
Oh, there above the little grave,
We kiss'd again with tears.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

THE DAYS THAT ARE NO MORE.

TEARS, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy autumn fields, And thinking of the days that are no more.

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, That brings our friends up from the under-world, Sad as the last which reddens over one That sinks with all we love below the verge : So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds To dying ears, when unto dying eyes The casement slowly grows a glimmering square; So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

Dear as remember'd kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

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