FROM the withering and the blight,
From the shadow of its night,
Into God's pure sunshine bright.

R. C. TRENCH.
Poems. (Macmillan.)

HAPPY flight thy sprite has taken,
From its plumes earth's last dust shaken :
On the earth is passionate weeping,
Round thy bier lone vigils keeping,-
In the heaven triumphant songs,
Welcome of angelic throngs,
As thou enterest on that day,
Which no tears nor fears allay,
No regrets or pangs affray,
Hemmed not in by yesterday,
By to-morrow hemmed not in.
Weep not for her-she doth win
What we long for; now is she
That which all desire to be.

R. C. TRENCH.
Poems. (Macmillan.)

(From "Burial of the Dead.") 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.
'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. JOHN KEBLE. Christian Year. (Parker.)

AT REST.

AFTER long days of sad and weary pain,

Borne bravely 'neath the shadow of the Cross, The rest has come-for her the endless gain, For us-the life-long and the bitter loss.

At last, the discipline of trial was o'er,

And won, through suffering, the glorious prize, And One came softly through the unopened door, With pierced Hand, and gently closed her eyes! And she has joined the bright and shining throng Who came from tribulation sad and sore,

And she has learned the new victorious song
That echoes round the Throne for evermore.
Rest, dear one, wife so tender and so true!
Mother, with all thy wealth of anxious love!
Thy Saviour all thy pain and sorrow knew,

And He has called thee to His Home above!

Though bitter tears our streaming eyes will dim,
Thank God for all His kind and gentle care,
In perfect bliss she safely rests with Him,
And now we long to go and meet her there!
R. H. BAYNES.

(From "Magdalen's Hymn.") DIM is the light of vanish'd years

In the glory yet to come;
O idle grief! O foolish tears!
When Jesus calls us home.

Like children for some bauble fair
That weep themselves to rest;
We part with life-awake! and there
The jewel in our breast.

JOHN WILSON.

THOU art gone-thou art gone from the Cross to the Crown,

From the glamours of time to the glory of lightLord of Hosts! on thy still-battling soldiers look down,

And like victory grant in this red field of fight. FRANCIS MEREDYTH. Arca. (Trübner.)

A a

BUT thou, dear glorious child, art fled,
And on thy Saviour's breast
Dost for the resurrection-morn
In holy quiet rest.

Oh, never would we change this hour,
With blessed hope so bright,
For that sad day of fainting prayers,
For that last anxious night.
The earth and all that is therein

Are hallowed to us now:
In work, at rest, at home, abroad,
Where'er we turn, art thou.

Thou blessed child in Paradise,

Safe fled from sin and pain; Oh, not for all thy life could give Shouldst thou be here again.

H. ALFORD. Poetical Works. (Isbister.)

THEN fell upon the house a sudden gloom-
A shadow on those features fair and thin:
And softly, from that hushed and darkened room,
Two Angels issued, where but one went in.
H. W. LONGFELLOW.

BUT far beyond all sound of earthly strife,
Or silent slumber 'neath this long, green sod,
Thou hast passed, triumphant, into perfect life,
The soul's true life in God.

AUTHOR OF "JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN."
Thirty Years. (Macmillan.)

A VOICE FROM HEAVEN.

I SHINE in the light of God,

His likeness stamps my brow,

Through the shadows of death my feet have trod,

And I reign in glory now!

No breaking heart is here,

No keen and thrilling pain,

No wasted cheek, where the frequent tear
Hath rolled and left its stain.

I have found the joys of heaven,
I am one of the angel-band;

To my head a crown of gold is given,
And a harp is in my hand!

I have learnt the song they sing
Whom Jesus hath set free;

And the glorious walls of heaven still ring
With my new-born melody.

No sin, no grief, no pain!

Safe in my happy home!

My fears all fled, my doubts all slain,
My hour of triumph come.

O friends of mortal years,

The trusted and the true,

Ye are walking still in the vale of tears,
But I wait to welcome you.

Do I forget?--Oh, no!

For memory's golden chain

Shall bind my heart to the hearts below
Till they meet to touch again.

Each link is strong and bright,

And love's electric flame
Flows freely down, like a river of light,
To the world from which I came.

Do you mourn when another star

Shines out from a glittering sky?
Do you weep when the raging voice of war
And the storms of conflict die?

Then why should your tears run down,
And your hearts be sorely riven,
For another gem in the Saviour's crown,
Another soul in heaven?

UNKNOWN.

(From "Below and Above.")

Down below cold sunlight on the tombstones,
And the green wet turf with faded flowers,
Winter roses, once like young hopes burning,
Now beneath the ivy dripp'd with showers.
And the new-made grave within the churchyard,
And the white cap on that young face pale,
And the watcher ever as it dusketh

Rocking to and fro with that long wail.
Up above a crown'd and happy spirit,
Like an infant in the eternal years,
Who shall grow in love and light for ever
Order'd in his place among his peers.

O the sobbing of the winds of autumn,
And the sunset streak of stormy gold,
And the poor heart thinking in the churchyard,
"Night is coming, and the grave is cold."

O the pale and plash'd and sodden roses,
And the desolate heart that grave above,
And the white cap shaking as it darkens

Round that shrine of memory and love.

O the rest for ever, and the rapture,

And the hand that wipes the tears away, And the golden homes beyond the sunset, And the hope that watches o'er the clay! W. ALEXANDER.

Specimens.

(From "Brothers and a Sermon.")

"YEA, thus the old man spake :
These were the last words of his aged mouth-
BUT ONE DID KNOCK. One came to sup with him,
That humble, weak old man; knocked at his door
In the rough pauses of the labouring wind.

I tell you that One knocked while it was dark,
Save when their foaming passion had made white
Those livid seething billows. What He said
In that poor place where He did talk awhile,
I cannot tell but this I am assured,
That when the neighbours came the morrow morn,
What time the wind had bated, and the sun

Shone on the old man's floor, they saw the smile
He passed away in, and they said, 'He looks
As he had woke and seen the face of Christ,
And with that rapturous smile held out his arms
To come to Him!'"

JEAN INGELOW.

Poems: First Series. (Longmans.)

For them the wild is past

With all its toil and care;
Its withering midnight blast,
Its fiery noonday glare.
Them the Good Shepherd leads,
Where storms are never rife,
In tranquil dewy meads
Beside the Fount of Life.

Ours only are the tears,

Who weep around their tomb, The light of bygone years

And shadowing years to come.

Their voice, their touch, their smile,Those love-springs flowing o'er,Earth for its little while

Shall never know them more.

O tender hearts and true,

Our long last vigil kept, We weep and mourn for you; Nor blame us : Jesus wept.

But soon at break of day

His calm Almighty voice, Stronger than death, shall say, Awake, arise,- rejoice.

E. H. BICKERSTETH.

How pleasant are thy paths, O Death!
Straight to our Father's Home;
All loss were gain that gained us this,
The sight of God, that single bliss
Of the grand world to come.

How pleasant are thy paths, O Death!
Ever from toil to rest,—

Where a rim of sea-like splendour runs, Where the days bury their golden suns, In the dear hopeful west!

HUSH! blessèd are the dead

In Jesus' arms who rest,

And lean their weary head

For ever on his breast.

O beatific sight!

No darkling veil between, They see the Light of Light,

Whom here they loved unseen.

F. W. FABER. Hymns. (Richardson.)

WE sail the sea of life-a calm one finds, And one a tempest-and, the voyage o'er, Death is the quiet haven of us all.

W. WORDSWORTH.

THE LITTLE WHILE.

"What is this that He saith, A little while?"--JOHN xvi. 18. OH for the peace which floweth as a river,

Making life's desert places bloom and smile! Oh for the faith to grasp heaven's bright "for ever," Amid the shadows of earth's "little while!" "A little while," for patient vigil-keeping,

To face the stern, to wrestle with the strong: "A little while" to sow the seed with weeping, Then bind the sheaves, and sing the harvest song. "A little while," to wear the weeds of sadness,

To pace, with weariness, through miry ways; Then-to pour forth the fragrant oil of gladness, And clasp the girdle round the robe of praise. "A little while," midst shadow and illusion,

To strive, by faith, love's mysteries to spell : Then-read each dark enigma's bright solution ; Then-hail sight's verdict, "He doth all things well."

"A little while," the earthen pitcher taking

To wayside brooks, from far-off mountains fed; Then the cool lip its thirst for ever slaking,

Beside the fulness of the Fountain-head. "A little while," to keep the oil from failing;

"A little while," faith's flickering lamp to trim; And then, the Bridegroom's coming footsteps hailing,

To haste to meet Him with the bridal hymn. And He, who is Himself the Gift and Giver, The future glory and the present smile; With the bright promise of the glad "for ever," Will light the shadows of the "little while." MRS. T. D. CREWDSON.

The Little While, &c. (F. B. Kitto.)

wwwwww

"NAY, wish not back from her paternal heavens This pure ghost, self-congratulative ere now, Of its translated life."

P. J. BAILEY. Festus. (Longmans.)

NOW AND AFTERWARD. Now, the spirit conflict-riven, Wounded heart, unequal strife; Afterward, the triumph given,

And the victor's crown of life.

Morn that shall light the tomb,

And call from dust

The slumbering just ;

That shall be thine!

All well with thee;

Oh, would that it were mine!

H. BONAR.

Hymns of Faith and Hope: First Series. (Nisbet.)

WHAT then? A shadowy valley, lone and dim; And then a deep and darkly rolling river; And then a flood of light-a seraph hymnAnd God's own smile for ever and for ever! MRS. T. D. CREWDSON.

The Little While, &c. (F. B. Kitto.)

SOME are resigned to go: might we such grace attain

That we should need our resignation to remain. THOMAS KEN.

A REQUIEM. [1858.]

THOU hast lived in pain and woe,
Thou hast lived in grief and fear;
Now thine heart can dread no blow,
Now thine eyes can shed no tear :
Storms round us shall beat and rave;
Thou art sheltered in the grave.
Thou for long, long years hast borne,
Bleeding through Life's wilderness,
Heavy loss and wounding scorn;
Now thine heart is burdenless :
Vainly rest for ours we crave;
Thine is quiet in the grave.
We must toil with pain and care,
We must front tremendous Fate,
We must fight with dark Despair;
Thou dost dwell in solemn state,
Couched triumphant, calm and brave,
In the ever-holy grave.

JAMES THOMSON.

Vane's Story. (Reeves and Turner.)

THE pains of death are past,
Labour and sorrow cease,

And life's long warfare closed at last,
His soul is found in peace.
Soldier of Christ! well done,
Praise be thy new employ ;
And while eternal ages run,
Rest in thy Saviour's joy.

JAMES MONTGOMERY. Poetical Works.

I was not happy, but I prayed,
At heart, that I might not be
As he who in that grave was laid,
Till I had lived as he.

LORD HOUGHTON.
Poetical Works. (Murray.)

He has outsoared the shadow of our night;
Envy and calumny, and hate and pain,
And that unrest which men miscall delight,
Can touch him not and torture not again;
From the contagion of the world's slow stain
He is secure, and now can never mourn
A heart grown cold, a head grown grey in vain;
Nor, when the spirit's self has ceased to burn,
With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn.
PERCY B. SHelley.
Adonais.

He lived in love; and God, whose son he was,
Not willing that the spirit pure should pass
Into the dim and damping atmosphere
Of these our earthly haunts and scenes of care,
While yet the hills and skies and common sights
O'erflowed his soul with joy, and wondrous thoughts
Sprung burning in his heart, fetched him away
To the unwithering banks and deep-green glades
Where flows the River of Eternal Truth.

HENRY ALFord.
Poetical Works. (Isbister.)