TO MY FRIEND ON THE DEATH OF HIS SISTER.

Thine is a grief, the depth of which another

May never know;

Yet, o'er the waters, O my stricken brother!

To thee I go.

I lean my heart unto thee, sadly folding

Thy hand in mine;

With even the weakness of my soul upholding

The strength of thine.

I never knew, like thee, the dear departed;

I stood not by

When, in calm trust, the pure and tranquil-hearted

Lay down to die.

And on thy ears my words of weak condoling

Must vainly fall

The funeral bell which in thy heart is tolling,

Sounds over all!

I will not mock thee with the poor world's common

And heartless phrase,

Nor wrong the memory of a sainted woman

With idle praise.

With silence only as their benediction,

God's angels come

Where, in the shadow of a great affliction,

The soul sits dumb!

Yet, would I say what thy own heart approveth

Our Father's will,

Calling to Him the dear one whom He loveth,

Is mercy still.

Not upon thee or thine the solemn angel

Hath evil wrought

Her funeral anthem is a glad evangel,—

The good die not!

God calls our loved ones, but we lose not wholly

What He hath given;

They live on earth, in thought and deed, as truly

As in His heaven.

And she is with thee; in thy path of trial

She walketh yet;

Still with the baptism of thy self-denial

Her locks are wet.

Up, then, my brother! Lo, the fields of harvest

Lie white in view

She lives and loves thee, and the God thou servest

To both is true.

Thrust in thy sickle! England's toilworn peasants

Thy call abide;

And she thou mourn'st, a pure and holy presence,

Shall glean beside!