a behest
Moveth the breast
To be holy and meek,
Lowly to seek
Life unto life,
Bearing through strife
Unto the end,
Trying to blend
Love unto life.

HOME SORROW.

Woe is the guest
Of every breast
As they turn from the grave,
Bordered in a wave
Of melancholy deep.
But their woe is not as our woe
In fervor or depth; they cannot know
The fulness to weep
Which we know,--
We who have held the keep
Of her noble heart,
Who was of our unity the crown,
And who was the bosom of our home,
Where did the soul of every member come.
We know the part,
As true mourners, to weep;
For never again,
While time doth remain,
Shall we hear her voice
Relating in choice
Some well-pleasing tale,
Which never could fail
The hours to beguile,
As many a smile
Ran from face unto face.
But now her wonted place
Is vacant, and we
Can sorrow but see
In all things which she
By remembrance comes.
Yet there is a soft tranquil in presence of grief,
Which filleth the bosom of hallowed relief,
Making the pang sweet which rendeth the heart,
Soothing the sorrow and easing the smart,
Leading the mind from vain follies away,
To seek a more sacred and truthful array.

IN REMEMBRANCE.

O memory of a mother gone!
Whene'er with others, or alone,
I hear or breathe that sacred name,
May it allure the hallowed flame
To shine on thee, and lead thy son
Into a better life, begun
Unworthy that which hath been done.
For him and all, and us anon,
In course of life I hear the knell
Of mournful, solemn funeral bell,
Or see the deep black drapings flow
Of funeral cortege moving slow.
Or, when the sombre weeds I don,
May they of warning not be lone,
But freely tell, in solemn truth,
The waning of my boasted youth;
That ere a while those rites shall be
Obsequies fashioned over me.
Then heedless, hasty spirit, pause
To learn and know the better cause
Wherefore ye live, and freely ask
Of wisdom for a fitter task.

TO THE OBSERVER.

Pause, cold observer, pause awhile;
Why will not death thy thoughts beguile?
Think ye for ever to abide