, 't is not these: Hell's might nor Heaven's charms,
Had never power to hold her from my arms;--
'T is that by some inscrutable, fixed Law,
Vaster than mortal vision ever saw,
Whose sweep is worlds; whose track Eternity,
Somewhere her soul angelic waits for me:--

Waits patiently His Wisdom, whose decree
Is Wisdom's self veiled in Infinity:
Who gives us Life divine with mortal breath,
Yet in its pathway, lo! hath planted Death;
Who grants us Love our dull souls to uplift
Nearer to Him; yet tears away His Gift;

Crowns us with Reason in His image made,
Yet blinds our eyes with never lifting shade.
Who may the mystery solve? 'T is His decree!
Can Mortal understand Infinity?
Prostrate thyself before His feet, dull clod,
Who saith, "Be still, and know that I am God."

Ah! did we surely know the joys that wait
Beyond the portal of the silent gate,
Who would a moment longer here abide,
The spectre, Sorrow, stalking at his side?
Who would not daring take the leap and be
Unbound, unfettered clean, a slave set free!

OUR DEAD

We bury our dead,
We lay them to sleep
With the earth for their bed,
With stones at their head:
We leave them and weep
When we bury our dead.

We bury our dead,
We lay them to sleep,--
On our Mother's calm breast
We leave them to rest--
To rest while we weep.

We bury our dead,
We lay them to sleep--
They reck not our tears,
Though the sad years creep--
Through our tears, through the years
They tranquilly sleep.

We bury our dead,
We lay them to sleep;
We bury the bloom
Of our life,--all our bloom
In the coffin we fold:
We enfold in the tomb:
We reenter the room
We left young,--we are old.

We bury our dead,
We lay them to sleep;
The cold Time-tides flow
With winter and spring,
With birds on the wing,
With roses and snow,
With friends who beguile
Our sorrow with pity--
With pity awhile.
Then weary and smile,
Then chide us, say, "Lo!
How the sun shines,--'t is May."
But we know 't is not so--
That the sun died that day
When we laid them away,
With the earth for a bed--
When we buried our dead.

We bury our dead,
We lay them to sleep;
We turn back to the world;
We are caught,--we are whirled
In the rush of the current--
The rush and the sweep
Of the tide, without rest.
But they sleep--they the blest--
The