The Sick Room.

In the dim religious gloom,

Where 'expressive silence' broods
O'er the closely curtained room,

Nor a stirring breath intrudes,-
As in silent prayer I kneel,
Thou art present, Lord, I feel.

When reluctant hope is fled,

When the pulses beat no more, And the last farewell is said,

And the war of life is o'er, Lord, both the spirit and the dust Of our beloved, to thee we trust.

117

WHOLESOME MEMORIES OF PAIN.

WHO that a watcher doth remain
Beside a couch of mortal pain,
Deems he can ever smile again?

Or who that weeps beside a bier,
Counts he has any more to fear
From the world's flatteries, false and leer?

And yet anon, and he doth start
At the light toys in which his heart
Can now already claim its part.

O hearts of ours, so weak and poor,
That nothing there can long endure!
And so their hurts find shameful cure;

While every sadder, wiser thought,
Each holier aim which sorrow brought,
Fades quite away and comes to nought.

Wholesome Memories of Pain.

O Thou who dost our weakness know,
Watch for us, that the strong hours so
Not wean us from our wholesome woe.

Grant thou that we may long retain
The wholesome memories of pain,
Nor wish to lose them soon again.

119

THE DAY OF DEATH.

THOU inevitable day,

When a voice to me shall say,

"Thou must rise and come away;

"All thine other journeys past,

Gird thee, and make ready fast
For thy longest and thy last;"

Day deep-hidden from our sight
In impenetrable night,
Who may guess of thee aright?

Art thou distant, art thou near? Wilt thou seem more dark or clear? Day with more of hope or fear?

Wilt thou come, not seen before
Thou art standing at the door,
Saying-Light and life are o'er?

The Day of Death.

Or with such a gradual pace
As shall leave me largest space
To regard thee face to face?

Shall I lay my drooping head
On some loved lap; round my bed
Prayer be made, and tears be shed?

Or at distance from mine own,
Name and kin alike unknown,
Make my solitary moan?

121

Will there yet be things to leave, Hearts to which this heart must cleave, From which, parting, it must grieve;

Or shall life's best ties be o'er,
And all loved things gone before
To that other happier shore?

Shall I gently fall on sleep,

Death, like slumber, o'er me creep,
Like a slumber sweet and deep?

Or the soul long strive in vain
To get free, with toil and pain,
From its half-divided chain?