Out of longing, loss, and pain,
Is there no gate?
Shall I clasp my own again?
"Silently wait!"

Little face, I list with awe ;

Though the storms come,
Law is love, and love is law-
Let me be dumb!

DIRGE.

KNOWS he who tills this lonely field,

To reap its scanty corn,

FRANCIS E. ABBOT

What mystic fruit his acres yield
At midnight and at morn?

In the long sunny afternoon,

The plain was full of ghosts;
I wandered up, I wandered down,
Beset by pensive hosts.

The winding Concord gleamed below,
Pouring as wide a flood

As when my brothers, long ago,
Came with me to the wood.

But they are gone,
-the holy ones
Who trod with me this lovely vale;
The strong, star-bright companions
Are silent, low, and pale.

My good, my noble, in their prime,

Who made this world the feast it was, Who learned with me the lore of time, Who loved this dwelling-place!

They took this valley for their toy,
They played with it in every mood;
A cell for prayer, a hall for joy,

They treated nature as they would.

They colored the horizon round;

Stars flamed and faded as they bade; All echoes hearkened for their sound, They made the woodlands glad or mad.

I touch this flower of silken leaf,

Which once our childhood knew; Its soft leaves wound me with a grief Whose balsam never grew.

Hearken to yon pine-warbler
Singing aloft in the tree!
Hearest thou, O traveller,

What he singeth to me?

Not unless God made sharp thine ear
With sorrow such as mine,

Out of that delicate lay could'st thou
Its heavy tale divine.

"Go, lonely man," it saith;

66

They loved thee from their birth; Their hands were pure, and pure their faith, – There are no such hearts on earth.

"Ye drew one mother's milk,

One chamber held ye all; A very tender history

Did in your childhood fall. "Ye cannot unlock your heart,

The key is gone with them; The silent organ loudest chants The master's requiem."

GONE.

ANOTHER hand is beckoning us,

Another call is given;

And glows once more with angel-steps
The path which reaches Heaven.

R. W. EMERSON

Our young and gentle friend, whose smile
Made brighter summer hours,
Amid the frosts of autumn time,
Has left us, with the flowers.

No paling of the cheek of bloom
Forewarned us of decay;

No shadow from the Silent Land
Fell round our sister's way.

The light of her young life went down,

As sinks behind the hill

As pure and sweet, her fair brow seemed
Eternal as the sky;

And like the brook's low song, her voice, -
A sound which could not die.

And half we deemed she needed not
The changing of her sphere,
To give to Heaven a Shining One,
Who walked an Angel here.

The blessing of her quiet life
Fell on us like the dew;

And good thoughts, where her footsteps pressed,
Like fairy blossoms grew.

Sweet promptings unto kindest deeds
Were in her very look;

We read her face, as one who reads
A true and holy book:

The measure of a blessed hymn,

To which our hearts could move; The breathing of an inward psalm; A canticle of love.

We miss her in the place of prayer,
And by the hearth-fire's light;
We pause beside her door to hear
Once more her sweet "Good night!'

There seems a shadow on the day
Her smile no longer cheers;
A dimness on the stars of night,
Like eyes that look through tears.

Alone unto our Father's will

One thought hath reconciled; That He whose love exceedeth ours Hath taken home His child.

Fold her,

Father! in Thine arms,
And let her henceforth be

A messenger of love between
Our human hearts and Thee.

Still let her mild rebuking stand
Between us and the wrong,

And her dear memory serve to make
Our faith in goodness strong.

And grant that she who, trembling, here
Distrusted all her powers,

May welcome to her holier home
The well-beloved of ours.

J. G. WHITTIER