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ON THE DEATH OF A SISTER.

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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 toil-worn peas

ants

Thy call abide;

And she thou mourn'st, a pure and holy presence, Shall glean beside!

THE TWO ANGELS.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

Two angels, one of Life and one of Death,
Passed o'er the village as the morning broke;
The dawn was on their faces, and beneath,
The sombre houses hearsed with plumes of

smoke.

Their attitude and aspect were the same,

Alike their features and their robes of white; But one was crowned with amaranth, as with flame,

And one with asphodels, like flakes of light.

I saw them pause on their celestial way;

Then said I, with deep fear and doubt oppressed: "Beat not so loud, my heart, lest thou betray

The place where thy beloved are at rest!”

THE TWO ANGELS.

And he who wore the crown of asphodels,

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Descending, at my door began to knock, And my soul sank within me, as in wells The waters sink before an earthquake's shock.

I recognized the nameless agony,

The terror and the tremor and the pain, That oft before had filled and haunted me, And now returned with threefold strength again.

The door I opened to my heavenly guest,

And listened, for I thought I heard God's voice, And, knowing whatsoe'er he sent was best, Dared neither to lament nor to rejoice.

Then with a smile, that filled the house with light,
66 My errand is not Death, but Life,” he said;
And, ere I answered, passing out of sight,
On his celestial embassy he sped.

'T was at thy door, O friend! and not at mine, The angel with the amaranthine wreath, Pausing, descended, and, with voice divine, Whispered a word that had a sound like Death.

Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom,
A shadow on those features fair and thin;
And softly, from that hushed and darkened room,
Two angels issued, where but one went in.

All is of God! If he but wave his hand,

The mists collect, the rain falls thick and louc Till with a smile of light on sea and land,

Lo! he looks back from the departing cloud.

Angels of Life and Death alike are his;

Without his leave, they pass no threshold o'er Who, then, would wish or dare, believing this, Against his messengers to shut the door?

FOLLEN.

66

ON READING HIS ESSAY ON THE FUTURE STATE.”

J. G. WHITTIER.

FRIEND of my soul!—as with moist eye
I look up from this page of thine,
Is it a dream that thou art nigh,
Thy mild face gazing into mine?

That presence seems before me now,

A placid heaven of sweet moonrise, When, dew-like, on the earth below

Descends the quiet of the skies;

FOLLEN.

The calm brow through the parted hair,
The gentle lips which knew no guile,
Softening the blue eye's thoughtful care
With the bland beauty of their smile.

Ah me!

at times that last dread scene Of Frost and Fire and moaning Sea Will cast its shade of doubt between

The failing eyes of Faith, and thee.

Yet, lingering o'er thy charmed page,
Where through the twilight air of earth,
Alike enthusiast and sage,

Prophet and bard, thou gazest forth,

Lifting the Future's solemn veil,

The reaching of a mortal hand To put aside the cold and pale

Cloud-curtains of the Unseen Land!

In thoughts which answer to my own,
In words which reach my inward ear,
Like whispers from the void Unknown,
I feel thy living presence here.

The waves which lull thy body's rest,
The dust thy pilgrim footsteps trod,
Unwasted, through each change, attest
The fixed economy of God.

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