THE VERDICT OF DEATH.

HOW does Death speak of our beloved

When it has laid them low;

When it has set its hallowing touch
On speechless lip and brow?

It clothes their every gift and grace
With radiance from the holiest place,
With light as from an angel's face;

Recalling with resistless force,
And tracing to their hidden source
Deeds scarcely noticed in their course.

This little loving fond device,

That daily act of sacrifice,

Of which too late we learn the price!

Opening our weeping eyes to trace
Simple, unnoticed kindnesses,

Forgotten notes of tenderness,

Which evermore to us must be

Sacred as hymns in infancy,

Learned listening at a mother's knee.

Thus does Death speak of cur beloved
When it has laid them low;

Then let Love antedate the work of Death,
And do this now!

How does Death speak of our beloved
When it has laid them low;
When it has set its hallowing touch
On speechless lip and brow?

It sweeps their faults with heavy hand,
As sweeps the sea the trampled sand,
Till scarce the faintest print is scanned.
It shows how such a vexing deed
Was but the generous nature's weed,
Or some choice virtue run to seed;

How that small fretting fretfulness
Was but love's over-anxiousness,
Which had not been, had love been less.

This failing, at which we repined,
But the dim shade of day declined,
Which should have made us doubly kind.

Thus does Death speak of our beloved
When it has laid them low;

Then let Love antedate the work of Death,
And do this now!

How does Death speak of our beloved

When it has laid them low;
When it has set its hallowing touch
On speechless lip and brow?

It takes each failing on our part,
And brands it in upon the heart
With caustic power and cruel art.

The small neglect that may have pained,
A giant stature will have gained
When it can never be explained;

The little service which had proved
How tenderly we watched and loved,

And those mute lips to glad smiles moved;

The little gift from out our store,

Which might have cheered some cheerless hour, When they with earth's poor needs were poor, But never will be needed more!

It shows our faults like fires at night;

It sweeps their failings out of sight;

It clothes their good in heavenly light.

O Christ, our life! foredate the work of Death,

And do this now!

Thou who art love, thus hallow our beloved!

Not Death, but Thou!

ELIZABETH CHARLES.

A MEDITATION.

"I believe in the Communion of Saints."

AND oh, Beloved ones, my lips are fain

To speak of you! this heart of mine so long Hath communed with you, they may not refrain To pay you honor in a guileless song;

I will not fear to do the Master wrong
In praising you, His servants, whom, unseen,
I love in Him. As oft a stranger's mien
Grows sudden dear through summoning the face
Of friend beloved, so have I joyed to trace
Your features back to His, and in the tone
Ye use, a sweeter voice hath still been known;
Nor read I blame within their ardent eyes,
Our elder, stronger Brethren of the skies,
That unto me their names, their effigies

Have been less dear than yours, who did not move
About your work with them, whose feet of flame
Upon their Master's errand went and came
As in the lightning flash; with footsteps slow
And wearied oft, kind ministers! ye went
About this lower House of His, intent
On humblest household tasks, and for the sake
Of this great family, with care opprest,
That it might fare the sweeter, ye did wake

Betimes, and watch that it might safer rest.
Ye wore not then the Halo on your brow,

But bound on rugged paths where once of old

Your Master toiled, where toil your brethren now,
Ye had not Angels for your mates, but cold
Dull hearts were round you, that within your own
Ye warmed, till oft their chillness deadly grown
Hath made your hands, hath made your bosoms ache!

Now have ye reached the Mount of God! no stain
Lies on your robes, and all your faces shine
As shone they never here, while yet in frail
Coarse vessels all your heaven-won treasure lay,
While oft the light within would pale and pine
Because the lamp that bore it was of clay -
Now, far behind the shrouding veil, your way
Leads on from grace to grace. —

And even thus we commune! spirits freed
And spirits fettered mingle, nor have need
To seek a common atmosphere; the air

Is meet for either in this olden, sweet,
Primeval breathing of Man's spirit — Prayer!

DORA GREENWELL.

THE COMMUNION OF SAINTS.

OR all Thy saints, O Lord,

FOR

Who strove in Thee to live,

Who followed Thee, obeyed, adored
Our grateful hymn receive.