end, Trying to blend Love unto life. p. 122 p. 123HOME SORROW. p. 123 Woe is the guest Of every breast As they turn from the grave, Bordered in a wave Of melancholy deep. But their woe is not as our woe In fervor or depth; they cannot know The fulness to weep Which we know,— We who have held the keep Of her noble heart, Who was of our unity the crown, And who was the bosom of our home, Where did the soul of every member come. We know the part, As true mourners, to weep; For never again, While time doth remain, Shall we hear her voice Relating in choice Some well-pleasing tale, Which never could fail The hours to beguile, As many a smile p. 124Ran from face unto face. But now her wonted place Is vacant, and we Can sorrow but see In all things which she By remembrance comes. Yet there is a soft tranquil in presence of grief, Which filleth the bosom of hallowed relief, Making the pang sweet which rendeth the heart, Soothing the sorrow and easing the smart, Leading the mind from vain follies away, To seek a more sacred and truthful array. p. 124 IN REMEMBRANCE. O memory of a mother gone! Whene’er with others, or alone, I hear or breathe that sacred name, May it allure the hallowed flame To shine on thee, and lead thy son Into a better life, begun Unworthy that which hath been done. For him and all, and us anon, In course of life I hear the knell Of mournful, solemn funeral bell, Or see the deep black drapings flow p. 125Of funeral cortege moving slow. Or, when the sombre weeds I don, May they of warning not be lone, But freely tell, in solemn truth, The waning of my boasted youth; That ere a while those rites shall be Obsequies fashioned over me. Then heedless, hasty spirit, pause To learn and know the better cause Wherefore ye live, and freely ask Of wisdom for a fitter task. p. 125 TO THE OBSERVER. Pause, cold observer, pause awhile; Why will not death thy thoughts beguile? Think ye for ever to abide By this deluding desert side? O wanderer, turn; O wanderer, stay; Why will ye spurn The voice to-day? A little while— An hour—may bring A broken smile, Death on the wing, p. 126To bear thee down By laden grief Beneath his frown. The time is brief. Then stay, oh stay! And lend an ear To what the dead— The dying say. Thy doom is hid, Thy death is near; The
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