Methought the languid pulses of her heart A transient moment came: anew she felt The binding ties which linked her heart with those She rose sublime, and joyfully she passed Whose name and nature still are Love. Farewell, Though men have paid small tribute to thy name, The evergreens of peace,-yet sweeter far Than all the homage of admiring throngs, Came to thy spirit's ear, the whispered words, "WELL DONE!" Well done, and thou art gone. "Tis thus That one by one, our links on earth give way: The loved, the bright, the pure! how oft they shine And pass like meteors from our sky. Yet still And from their ashes cold, they bid us wrap Those feelings pure around our hearts, and store Those treasures up, which, in that hastening hour, When pomp and pride with sickening weight shall press, Like angel guards, shall turn each pang aside, And smile around the entrance-door of death. N. COME HOME. COME home! Would I could send my spirit o'er the deep, Would I could wing it like a bird to thee, Come home! Come to the hearts that love thee, to the eyes That beam in brightness but to gladden thine; Come where fond thoughts, like holiest incense rise, Where cherished memory rears her altar shrine. Brother, come home. Come home! Come to the hearthstone of thy earlier days, Come to the ark, like the o'erwearied dove; Come with the sunlight of thy heart's warm rays, Come to the fireside circle of thy love. Brother, come home. Come home! It is not home without thee, the lone seat Is still unclaimed where thou wert wont to be; In every echo of returning feet, In vain we list for what should herald thee. Brother, come home. Come home! We've nursed for thee the sunny buds of spring, Saw o'er their bloom the chilly winter bring Come home! Would I could send my spirit o'er the deep, DEPARTED FRIENDS. It is not when the parting breath we watch with anxious heart, It is not in the hour of death, when those we love depart, Nor yet, when laid upon the bier, we follow slow the course Which leads us to their dwelling low, that most we feel their loss. When past the last and solemn rite, and dust to dust has gone, And in its wonted channelled course the stream of life flows on; Ah! who can tell how drear the space once filled by those When well known scenes, and local things, and all but they are here. This deep, this heartfelt loneliness, this quietness of grief, Falls heavier on our hours of joy, than tempests strong but brief; |