Bring trophies of their victories over sin; The tried and tempted, with their foreheads sealed With the Great Name; the heroes, martyrs, sages,— White robes for the redeemed of countless ages. There venerated bands Are bathed in founts of fadeless youth and bloom; Gathered from orient climes, And western shores, and tropic forests deep, O suffering Lord, through thee Whose blood alone can make the crimson white! The weight of sin, and make the burden light. Our Faith, Hope, Charity, Inspire, inform, till they grasp heavenly things, White robes at last for even such as we. THE BLESSED ONES. Blessed are the early dead, LINES, TO MR. AND MRS. WHITCOMB, ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD. A group of flowers were on the green earth springing, Death's presence, shadowy and dim, around each pathway lingers, His seal is pressed, it may be lightly on each cheek and brow, And many a hand is clasping the cold, mournful fingers That leadeth ever to the Land where all must go. Young mother! thrice in thy sweet home has that pale presence entered, And broken thy opening buds down one by one: Those cherished buds where thy fond love was centered, Leaving thee weeping by the sad hearth-stone. Look up through thy wild tears, and heed thy pure faith's teaching That whispers," Death is no enemy to thee: " The fragrance of thy flowers to a far land was reaching, Where storm and blight and withering ne'er will be. Death is a dark winged form that God is ever sending For buds and flowers and fruit to beautify his heaven. He loves a willing gift, and joy will e'er be blending With thy deep grief, if cheerfully thy babes are given. EMILY A. W. VINTON. THE MOTHER'S GRIEF. To mark the sufferings of the babe Through dreary days and darker nights, To see in one short hour decayed Yet when the first wild throb is past To lift the eye of faith to heaven, O'ercomes a mother's grief. ANGELS' VISITS. With silence only as their benediction, Where, in the shadow of a great affliction, Yet would we say, what every heart approveth— Calling to him the dear ones whom he loveth, Not upon us or ours the solemn angel Hath evil wrought; The funeral anthem is a glad evangel; The good die not! God calls our loved ones, but we lose not wholly What he has given; They live on earth in thought and deed as truly As in his heaven. JOHN G. WHITTIER. FUTURE MEETING. When shall we meet again? When will peace wreath her chain Round us forever? Our hearts will ne'er repose Safe from each blast that blows, In this dark vale of woes, Never-no, never! When shall love freely flow Pure as life's river? When shall sweet friendship glow Where bliss each heart shall fill, Up to that world of light Take us dear Savior. Where kindred spirits dwell, Soon shall we meet again, Soon shall peace wreathe her chain Round us forever; Our hearts will then repose Our songs of praise shall close Never-no, never! "The Lord gave; the Lord hath taken away; and blessed be the name of the Lord." "Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost, as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be. Amen." |