abounding store, Passed by many a friendly door. But now, how changed is the scene! She, cold in death’s awful sheen, Is borne unto the still hallowed green. Every passer turns to see, And they say, “Who can it be?” And they ponder in the thought— One more unto death brought. Soon may we, too, soon be sought. But they who her in life knew Feel the truth more strangely true, And they take a sadder view Of the great loss to the few, Who received the bosom love Which her kind deeds went to prove. p. 120Now they tread in the hallowed ground, Where the sons of ages have found Together a home. And they pause by the chosen ground, And all, in a silence profound, Hear the words of comfort flow, In deep power, sadly and low, From the messenger of love, Appointed of God above To tell to His people peace, And from care a glad release; And his words of comfort are Sweeter to their hearts by far Than balm to a seething wound. And now they lay In the cold clay, To moulder away, All that is mortal of her. O grave! receive her; Ye have no terror, But to relieve her A world of woe.  ’Tis but a season, Waiting in reason, She shall be there. p. 121She hath gone down corruptible, But shall rise incorruptible, Adornéd and fair, When this grave which is closéd Shall again be discloséd, And the Good Shepherd shall call Together unto Him all His people, faithful and good, Who in life steadfast have stood. O widower! weep not, And, orphans, lament not. Weep not by the cold grave, Long not that ye might have Her with you again; But let her remain Alone in the grave, In the peace of her last long abode. Far sweeter is death unto her now.

p. 119

p. 120

p. 121

AFTER THE BURIAL.

All hath been finished now; And from the darkened brow Of the grave the people move, Pondering his own heart to prove, Each unto his home. p. 122While of the old dead’s demesne Hallowed fancies come, Living and clear, urgent and fain, As they visit in thought again And again the place where remain Their fathers, the sons of many ages, Gathered from the ever-turning pages Of the volume of time, Like a long running rhyme—  Old age and youth, Falsehood and truth, Beauty and pride Side unto side In that old churchyard, In the sacred guard Of hallowed rest. Then a behest Moveth the breast To be holy and meek, Lowly to seek Life unto life, Bearing through strife Unto the 

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