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There are who for thy last, long sleep

Shall sleep as sweetly nevermore, — Shall weep because thou canst not weep,

And grieve that all thy griefs are o'er.

Sad thrift of love! the loving breast

On which the aching head was thrown, Gave up the weary head to rest,

But kept the aching for its own.

T. K. HERVEY.

CROSSING THE BAR.

SUNSET and evening star,

And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,

When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,

Too full for sound and foam, When that which drew from out the boundless

deep Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,

And after that the dark! And may

there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark ;

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place

The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face

When I have crost the bar.

ALFRED TENNYSON,

[graphic]

I was not ever thus, nor pray'd that Thou

Shouldst lead me on;
I loved to choose and see my path; but now

Lead Thou me on!

I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,
Pride ruled my will. Remember not past years!

So long Thy power has blest me, suv it still

Will lead me on
O'er moor and fen, n'a crag and torrent, till

The night is gone,
And with the morn those angel faces smile
Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile !

JOHN HENRY NEWMAN.

THERE IS NO DEATH.

THERE is no death! The stars go down

To rise upon some fairer shore,
And bright in Heaven's jewelled crown

They shine forever more.

There is no death! The dust we tread

Shall change beneath the Summer showers To golden grain or mellow fruit,

Or rainbow-tinted flowers.

The granite rocks disorganize

To feed the hungry moss they bear; The forest leaves drink daily life

From out the viewless air.

There is no death! The leaves may fall,

The flower may fade and pass away; They only wait through the Wintry hours

The coming of the May.

There is no death! An aged form

Walks o'er the earth with silent tread; ht'murs our best loved things away,

And the. we call them “ dead.”

He leaves our hearts all uenlate;

He plucks our sweetest, fairest flovers ; Transplanted into bliss, they now

Adorn immortal bowers.

The bird-like voice, whose joyous tones

Made glad the scenes of sin and strife, Sings now an everlasting song

Amid the Tree of Life.

And where he sees a smile too bright,

Or heart too pure for sin and vice, He bears it to that world of light

To dwell in Paradise.

Born unto that undying life,

They leave us but to come again ; With joy we welcome them—the same

Except in sin and pain.

And even near us, though unseen,

The dear immortal spirits tread;
For all the boundless universe
Is life-there is no dead.

EDWARD BULWER LYTTON.

IF I SHOULD DIE TO-NIGHT.

IF I should die to-night, My friends would look upon my quiet face Before they laid it in its resting place, And deem that death had left it almost fair; And, laying snow-white flowers against my hair, Would smooth it down with tearful tenderness, And fold my hands with lingering caress; Poor hands, so empty and so cold to-night!

If I should die to-night, My friends would call to mind, with loving thought, Some kindly deed the icy hand had wrought; Some gentle word the frozen lips had said ; Errands on which the willing feet had sped; The memory of my selfishness and pride, My hasty words, would all be put aside, And so I should be loved and mourned to-night.

If I should die to-night, Even hearts estranged would turn once more to me, Recalling other days remorsefully, The eyes

that chill me with averted glance Would look upon me as of yore, perchance, And soften, in the old, familiar way, For who could war with dumb, unconscious clay ? So I might rest, forgiven of all, to-night.

Oh, friends, I pray to-night,
Keep not your kisses for my dead, cold brow,

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