As brothers here we've shared the smiles,
The tears of boyhood's hour,
And felt the sweet companionship
Of manhood's love and power.
But now the tie is snapped. He's fled
Beyond the mortal sight.
The grave with all its mystery
Asserts Death's power to blight.
Alas! Death seems the cruel thing
In this bright world of ours.
The bravest soul shrinks from its hold
Though loving faith empowers.
But, hark! Is 't not his voice I hear,
With comfort as of yore?
"Dear brother, Death is but more Life,
The grave is heaven's door."
[TO MRS. PARTINGTON.]
July 12, 1886.
Another birthday here?
It hardly seems a year
Since I these words did hear,—
When three score years and one did crown thee,—
"Not till I am an octagon,
Or, worse still, a centurion,
Shall I be old, with factories gone
All idiomatic and forlorn."
But thou art still a "membrane" dear
Of what we call society's cheer;
"Ordained beforehand, in advance."
('Twas "foreordained," that does enhance,)