As when in watches of the night we see,

Hanging in tremulous beauty o'er the bed,

The face we loved on Earth, now from us fled;

So wan, so sweet, so spiritually free

From taint of Earth, thy tender drawings be.

There we may find a friend remembered;

With a new aureole hovering round the head,

Given by Art's peaceful immortality.

How many homes half empty fill the place

Death vacates, with thy gracious substitutes!

Not sensuous with color, which may disgrace

The memory of the body shared with brutes;

But the essential spirit in the face;

TO WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON, AFTER THE WAR.

OH! happiest thou, who from the shining height,

Of tablelands serene can look below Where glared the tempest, and the lightning's glow,

And see thy seed made harvest wave in light,

And

all the darkened land with God's smile bright!

Leaving with him the issue. Enough to know

Aibeit the sword hath sundered brethers so,

"Come away;

Kiss her! and leave her!-thy love

is clay!"

They smoothed her trosses of dark brown hair;

On her forehead of marble they laid it fair:

Over her eyes, which gazed too much,

They drew the lids with a gentle touch;

With a tender touch they closed up well

The sweet thin lips that had secrets to tell;

About her brows, and her dear, pale face

They tied her veil and her marriagelace;

dead,

HE who died at Azan sends
This to comfort all his friends:

Pale and white and cold as snow;
Faithful friends! It lies, I know,
And ye say,

"Abdallah's dead!"

Weeping at the feet and head,
I can see your falling tears,
I can hear your sighs and prayers;
"I am not the thing you kiss;
Yet I smile and whisper this,-
Cease your tears, and let it lie;
It was mine, it is not I."

Sweet friends! What the women lave
For its last bed of the grave,
Is a tent which I am quitting,
Is a garment no more fitting,
Is a cage from which, at last,
Like a hawk my soul ath passed.
Love the inmate, not the room,-
The wearer, not the garb, - the
plume

Of the falcon, not the bars
Which kept him from these splendid

stars.

Loving friends! Be wise and dry
Straightway every weeping eye,—
What ye lift upon the bier
Is not worth a wistful tear.
'Tis an empty sea-shell,— one
Out of which the pearl is gone;
The shell is broken, it lies there;
The pearl, the all, the soul, is here,

Tis an earthen jar, whose lid
Allah sealed, the while it hid
That treasure of his treasury,
A mind that loved him; let it lie!
Let the shard be earth's once more,
Since the gold shines in his store!

Allah glorious! Allah good!
Now thy world is understood;
Now the long, long wonder ends;
Yet ye weep, my erring friends,
While the man whom ye call dead,
In unspoken bliss, instead,
Lives and loves you; lost, 'tis true,
By such light as shines for you;
But in light ye cannot see
Of unfulfilled felicity,-
In enlarging paradise,
Lives a life that never dies.

Farewell, friends! Yet not farewell;
Where I am, ye, too, shall dwell.
I am gone before your face,
A moment's time, a little space.
When ye come where I have stepped
Ye will wonder why ye wept;
Ye will know, by wise love taught,
That here is all, and there is naught.
Weep awhile, if ye are fain,-
Sunshine still must follow rain;
Only not at death,- for death,
Now I know, is that first breath
Which our souls draw when we enter
Life, which is of all life centre.

Be ye certain all seems love,
Viewed from Allah's throne above;
Be ye stout of heart, and come
Bravely onward to your home!
La Allah illa Allah! yea!

Thou love divine! Thou love alway!

'Tis good that thy name springs
From two of Earth's fair things-
A stately city and a soft-voiced bird;
'Tis well that in all homes,
When thy sweet story comes,
And brave eyes fill-that pleasant
sounds be heard.

Oh voice! in night of fear,
As night's bird, soft to hear,
Oh great heart! raised like city on a
hill;

Oh watcher! worn and pale,
Good Florence Nightingale,
Thanks, loving thanks, for thy large
work and will!

England is glad of thee-
Christ, for thy charity,

Take thee to joy when hand and heart are still!