Chapter 147
TO OUR BELOVED
It singeth low in every heart, We hear it, each and all-- A song of those who answer not, However we may call; They throng the silence of the breast, We see them as of yore-- The kind, the brave, the true, the sweet, Who walk with us no more.
'Tis hard to take the burden up When these have laid it down; They brightened all the joy of life, They softened every frown; But, O, 'tis good to think of them When we are troubled sore!
Thanks be to G.o.d that such have been, Though they are here no more.
More homelike seems the vast unknown Since they have entered there; To follow them were not so hard, Wherever they may fare; They cannot be where G.o.d is not, On any sea or sh.o.r.e; Whate'er betides, thy love abides, Our G.o.d, for evermore.
--John White Chadwick.
A DEATH BED
As I lay sick upon my bed I heard them say "in danger"; The word seemed very strange to me Could any word seem stranger?
"In danger"--of escape from sin For ever and for ever!
Of entering that most holy place Where evil entereth never!
"In danger"--of beholding him Who is my soul's salvation!
Whose promises sustain my soul In blest antic.i.p.ation!
"In danger"--of soon shaking off Earth's last remaining fetter!
And of departing hence to be "With Christ," which is far better!
It _is_ a solemn thing to die, To face the king Immortal, And each forgiven sinner should Tread softly o'er the portal.
But when we have confessed our sins To him who can discern them, And G.o.d has given pardon, peace, Tho' we could ne'er deserve them,
Then, dying is no dangerous thing; Safe in the Saviour's keeping, The ransomed soul is gently led Beyond the reach of weeping.
So tell me with unfaltering voice When Hope is really dawning; I should not like to sleep away My few hours till the morning.
Yet Love will dream and Faith will trust, (Since he who knows our need is just,) That somehow, somewhere meet we must.
Alas for him who never sees The stars s.h.i.+ne through his cypress trees!
Who
--John Greenleaf Whittier.
AFTERWARD
There _is_ no vacant chair. The loving meet-- A group unbroken--smitten, who knows how?
One sitteth silent only, in his usual seat; We gave him once that freedom. Why not now?
Perhaps he is too weary, and needs rest; He needed it too often, nor could we Bestow. G.o.d gave it, knowing how to do it best.
Which of us would disturb him? Let him be.
There is no vacant chair. If he will take The mood to listen mutely, be it done.
By his least mood we crossed, for which the heart must ache, Plead not nor question! Let him have this one.
Death is a mood of life. It is no whim By which life's Giver wrecks a broken heart.
Death is life's reticence. Still audible to him, The hushed voice, happy, speaketh on, apart.
There is no vacant chair. To love is still To have. Nearer to memory than to eye, And dearer yet to anguish than to comfort, will We hold him by our love, that shall not die,
For while it doth not, thus he cannot. Try!
Who can put out the motion or the smile?
The old ways of being n.o.ble all with him laid by?
Because we love he is. Then trust awhile.
--Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward.
OUR TWO GIFTS
Two gifts G.o.d giveth, and he saith One shall be forfeit in the strife-- The one no longer needed: life, No hand shall take the other, death.
--John Vance Cheney.
ATHANASIA
The s.h.i.+p may sink, And I may drink A hasty death in the bitter sea; But all that I leave In the ocean grave Can be slipped and spared, and no loss to me.
What care I Though falls the sky And the shriveling earth to a cinder turn; No fires of doom Can ever consume What never was made nor meant to burn!
Let go the breath!
There is no death To a living soul, nor loss, nor harm.
Not of the clod Is the life of G.o.d-- Let it mount, as it will, from form to form.
--Charles Gordon Ames.
LIFE
Life! I know not what thou art, But know that thou and I must part; And when, or how, or where we met I own to me's a secret yet.
But this I know--when thou art fled, Where'er they lay these limbs, this head, No clod so valueless shall be As all that there remains of me.
O whither, whither dost thou fly?
Where bend unseen thy trackless course?
And in this strange divorce, Ah, tell where I must seek this compound, I?
Life! we've been long together, Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; 'Tis hard to part when friends are dear.
Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear; Then steal away, give little warning, Choose thine own time; Say not "Good Night," but in some brighter clime Bid me "Good Morning."
--Anna Let.i.tia Barbauld.