How calm they sleep beneath the shade
Who once were weary of the strife, And bent, like us, beneath the load
Of human life!
The willow hangs with sheltering grace
And benediction o'er their sod, And Nature, hushed, assures the soul
They rest in God.
O weary hearts, what rest is here,
From all that curses yonder town! So deep the peace, I almost long
To lay me down.
For, oh, it will be blest to sleep,
Nor dream, nor move, that silent night, Till wakened in immortal strength
And heavenly light!
CRAMMOND KENNEDY.
The dead abide with us! Though stark and cold
Earth seems to grip them, they are with us still:
They have forged our chains of being for good or ill;
And their invisible hands these hands yet hold.
Our perishable bodies are the mould
In which their strong imperishable will—
Mortality's deep yearning to fulfil—
Hath grown incorporate through dim time untold.
Vibrations infinite of life in death,
As a star's travelling light survives its star!
So may we hold our lives, that when we are
The fate of those who then will draw this breath,
They shall not drag us to their judgment-bar,
And curse the heritage which we bequeath.
MATHILDE BLIND.