EARLY DEATH

SHE passed away like morning dew
Before the sun was high;

So brief her time, she scarcely knew
The meaning of a sigh.

As round the rose its soft perfume,
Sweet love around her floated;
Admired she grew-while mortal doom
Crept on, unfeared, unnoted.

Love was her guardian Angel here,
But Love to Death resigned her;

Though Love was kind, why should we fear
But holy Death is kinder?

Hartley Coleridge [1796-1849]

THE MOSS-ROSE

WALKING to-day in your garden, O gracious lady,

Little you thought, as you turned in that alley remote and shady

And gave me a rose, and asked if I knew its savor

The old-world scent of the moss-rose, flower of a bygone favor

Little you thought, as you waited the word of appraisement,
Laughing at first, and then amazed at my amazement,
That the rose you gave was a gift already cherished,
And the garden whence you plucked it a garden long
perished.

But I-I saw that garden, with its one treasure

The tiny moss-rose, tiny even by childhood's measure.

And the long morning shadow of the rusty laurel,

And a boy and a girl beneath it, flushed with a childish quarrel.

She wept for her one little bud; but he, outreaching

The hand of brotherly right, would take it for all her be

seeching;

And she flung her arms about him, and gave like a sister, And laughed at her own tears, and wept again when he kissed her.

So the rose is mine since, and whenever I find it

And drink again the sharp sweet scent of the moss behind it, I remember the tears of a child, and her love and her laugh

ter,

And the morning shadows of youth, and the night that fell

thereafter.

Henry Newbolt [1862

A REQUIEM

THOU hast lived in pain and woe,
Thou hast lived in grief and fear;
Now thine heart can dread no blow,

Now thine eyes can shed no tear:

Storms round us shall beat and rave;
Thou art sheltered in the grave.

Thou for long, long years hast borne,
Bleeding through Life's wilderness,
Heavy loss and wounding scorn;
Now thine heart is burdenless:

Vainly rest for ours we crave;
Thine is quiet in the grave.

We must toil with pain and care,
We must front tremendous Fate,
We must fight with dark Despair:
Thou dost dwell in solemn state,

Couched triumphant, calm and brave,
In the ever-holy grave.

James Thomson [1834-1882]

LADY MARY

THOU wert fair, Lady Mary,

As the lily in the sun:

And fairer yet thou mightest be,

Thy youth was but begun:

Thine eye was soft and glancing,
Of the deep bright blue;

And on the heart thy gentle words
Fell lighter than the dew.

They found thee, Lady Mary,
With thy palms upon thy breast,
Even as thou hadst been praying,
At thine hour of rest:

The cold pale moon was shining
On thy cold pale cheek;
And the morn of the Nativity
Had just begun to break.

They carved thee, Lady Mary,
All of pure white stone,

With thy palms upon thy breast,

In the chancel all alone:

And I saw thee when the winter moon
Shone on thy marble cheek,
When the morn of the Nativity
Had just begun to break.

But thou kneelest, Lady Mary,
With thy palms upon thy breast,
Among the perfect spirits,

In the land of rest.

Thou art even as they took thee

At thine hour of prayer,

Save the glory that is on thee

From the sun that shineth there.

We shall see thee, Lady Mary,

On that shore unknown,

A pure and happy angel

In the presence of the throne;

We shall see thee when the light divine

Plays freshly on thy cheek,

And the resurrection morning

Hath just begun to break.

Henry Alford [1810-1871]

One year ago,--what loves, what schemes
Far into life!

What joyous hopes, what high resolves,
What generous strife!

The silent picture on the wall,
The burial-stone

Of all that beauty, life, and joy,
Remain alone!

One year, one year, one little year,

And so much gone!

And yet the even flow of life

Moves calmly on.

The grave grows green, the flowers bloom fair
Above that head;

No sorrowing tint of leaf or spray
Says he is dead.

No pause or hush of merry birds,

That sing above,

Tells us how coldly sleeps below
The form we love.

Where hast thou been this year,

What hast thou seen,—

beloved?

What visions fair, what glorious life,

Where hast thou been?

The veil! the veil! so thin, so strong!
'Twixt us and thee;

The mystic veil! when shall it fall,
That we may see?

Not dead, not sleeping, not even gone,
But present still,

And waiting for the coming hour
Of God's sweet will.

Lord of the living and the dead,
Our Saviour dear!

We lay in silence at thy feet

This sad, sad year.

Harriet Beecher Stowe [1811-1896]

THE WIDOW'S MITE

A WIDOW-she had only one!

A puny and decrepit son;

But, day and night,

Though fretful oft, and weak and small,
A loving child, he was her all-

The Widow's Mite.

The Widow's Mite! ay, so sustained,
She battled onward, nor complained,
Though friends were fewer:
And while she toiled for daily fare,
A little crutch upon the stair
Was music to her.

I saw her then,—and now I see
That, though resigned and cheerful, she
Has sorrowed much:

She has, He gave it tenderly,

Much faith; and, carefully laid by,

A little crutch.

Frederick Locker-Lampson [1821-1895]