BISHOP MACINTYRE.
On Canaan's border land,
By Jordan's watery gates, The host of Israel waits;— They mourn the Guiding-Hand.
With firm, free step he trod
On Pisgah's mountain crest; He laid him down to rest; Alone! save with his God.
He sighed no faint farewell;
No murmuring refrains Out-echoed angel strains; Nor tolled dull funeral knell.
Thus, as in days gone by
Great leader! careful guide! God called thee hence, aside; We might not see thee die.
Yet we have seen—may see
Thy work of nobler life; The courage through the strife; Deeds testify of thee.
Rest well! Oh silvered head!
Voice ever prone to bless, To soothe the soul's distress, Peace to thy lowly bed!
Though next thy heart, thine own;
Thy sympathies, world wide Flowed, with unstinted tide; Bedewed each mortal zone.
Rest well! ye feet which trod
That straight and narrow way Illumed of purer ray; Quintessence of our God.
Soul! which hath soared afar,
Beyond the flight of time; In calm, congenial clime, No ills thy joys may mar.
Fair spirit! just and wise;
Kind heart of largess love! Christ-life, all creeds above; Rest thou in kindred skies.
More glorious eve's bright sun,
More dull seems dolesome night; So, lost thy glorious light; And yet—Heaven's will be done.
[BISHOP BROOKS.]
THE STUDENTS OF HARVARD AWAITING
THE FUNERAL CORTEGE.
Why, with uncovered head Stand they upon that fleece of snow
Mute-stricken, as of sudden woe?
Silent they wait the dead.
Comes there some hero slain Upon the blood-red field of war?
With soldier-guarded funeral car,
And glittering martial train.
No gun with sullen roar; No flaunting emblems from the fight
To spread his fame, to tell his might;
Who died, to die no more.
With reverend tread, and slow, All noiselessly the footsteps fall;
As sombre garb, and plume and pall
Pass o'er the soft, white snow.
'Mid Love's choice offering Of sweet, rare flowers, whose tender breath
Speak brightest life, serenest death,
He lies, affection's king.
Triumph of Christian faith O'er spurious sophistries of time;
The sinless walk; the end sublime,
No ghastly fears to scathe.
Pass on unto thy rest Thou generous heart! thou rich in lore!
Thou whom all creeds and castes deplore;—
God knoweth what is best.