"Over the River" If a star were confined into a tomb, 3287 Her captive flames must needs burn there; O Father of eternal life, and all Created glories under Thee! Resume Thy spirit from this world of thrall Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill Or else remove me hence unto that hill, Where I shall need no glass. Henry Vaughan [1622–1695] “OVER THE RIVER” OVER the river they beckon to me, Loved ones who've crossed to the farther side, The gleam of their snowy robes I see, But their voices are lost in the dashing tide. There's one with ringlets of sunny gold, And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue; And the pale mist hid him from mortal view. My brother stands waiting to welcome me. Over the river the boatman pale Carried another, the household pet; Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale, Darling Minnie! I see her yet. She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands, We felt it glide from the silver sands, And all our sunshine grew strangely dark. We know she is safe on the farther side, My childhood's idol is waiting for me. For none return from those quiet shores, And catch a gleam of the snowy sail; And lo! they have passed from our yearning hearts, That hides from our vision the gates of day; May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea; Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore, And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold And list for the sound of the boatman's oar; Nancy Woodbury Priest [1836-1870] RESIGNATION THERE is no flock, however watched and tended, But one dead lamb is there! There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, But has one vacant chair! " Resignation The air is full of farewells to the dying, And mournings for the dead; The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, Let us be patient! These severe afflictions Not from the ground arise, But oftentimes celestial benedictions Assume this dark disguise. We see but dimly through the mists and vapors; What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers May be heaven's distant lamps. There is no Death! What seems so is transition; This life of mortal breath Is but a suburb of the life elysian Whose portal we call Death. She is not dead,—the child of our affection,- Where she no longer needs our poor protection, In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, Day after day we think what she is doing In those bright realms of air; Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, Behold her grown more fair. Thus do we walk with her and keep unbroken The bond which nature gives, 3289 Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, Not as a child shall we again behold her; In our embraces we again enfold her, But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, And beautiful with all the soul's expansion And though at times impetuous with emotion And anguish long suppressed, The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, We will be patient, and assuage the feeling We may not wholly stay; By silence sanctifying, not concealing, The grief that must have way. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882] AFTERWARD THERE is no vacant chair. The loving meet, We gave him once that freedom. Why not now? Perhaps he is too weary, and needs rest; He needed it so often, nor could we Bestow. God gave it, knowing how to do so best. There is no vacant chair. If he will take The mood to listen mutely, be it done. By his least mood we crossed, for which the heart must ache, Plead not nor question! Let him have this one. Sometime Death is a mood of life. It is no whim By which life's Giver mocks a broken heart. Death is life's reticence. Still audible to Him, The hushed voice, happy, speaketh on, apart. There is no vacant chair. To love is still To have. Nearer to memory than to eye. And dearer yet to anguish than to comfort, will We hold by our love, that shall not die. For while it doth not, thus he cannot. Try! 3291 Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward [1844-1911] SOMETIME SOMETIME, when all life's lessons have been learned, The things which our weak judgments here have spurned, Will flash before us out of life's dark night, As stars shine most in deeper tints of blue; And we shall see how, while we frown and sigh, Too much of sweet to craving babyhood, And if, sometimes, commingled with life's wine, |