JOHN WALSH

A strange life — strangely passed!

We may not read the soul

When God has folded up the scroll

In death at last.

We may not — dare not say of one

Whose task of life as well was done

As he could do it,— “This is lost,

And prayers may never pay the cost.”

Who listens to the song

That sings within the breast,

Should ever hear the good expressed

Above the wrong.

And he who leans an eager ear

To catch the discord, he will hear

The echoes of his own weak heart

Beat out the most discordant part.

Whose tender heart could build

Affection's bower above

A heart where baby nests of love

Were ever filled,—

With upward growth may reach and twine

About the children, grown divine,

That once were his a time so brief

His very joy was more than grief.

O Sorrow — “Peace, be still!”

God reads the riddle right;

And we who grope in constant night

But serve His will;

And when sometime the doubt is gone,

And darkness blossoms into dawn,—

“God keeps the good,” we then will say:

"‘ Tis but the dross He throws away.”