One fragment of His blessed Word,
Into thy spirit burned,

Is better than the whole, half-heard,
And by thine interest turned.

Show thou the light. If conscience gleam,
Set not thy bushel down;

The smallest spark may send his beam
O'er hamlet, tower and town.

Woe, woe to him, on safety bent,
Who creeps to age from youth,
Failing to grasp his life's intent,

Because he fears the truth.

DEAN ALFORD.

EXTRACT.

WE watched her breathing through the night,

Her breathing soft and low,

As in her breast the wave of life

Kept heaving to and fro.

So silently we seemed to speak,

So slowly moved about,

As we had lent her half our powers

To eke her living out.

THE FRIEND'S BURIAL.

Our very hopes belied our fears,
Our fears our hopes belied;

We thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died.

For when the morn came dim and sad,
And chill with early showers,

Her quiet eyelids closed-she had

Another morn than ours.

ΙΟΙ

HOOD.

THE FRIEND'S BURIAL.

My thoughts are all in yonder town,
Where, wept by many tears,
To-day my mother's friend lays down
The burden of her years.

True as in life, no poor disguise
Of death with her is seen,

And on her simple casket lies

No wreath of bloom and green.

O not for her the florist's art,

The mocking weeds of woe;

But blessings of the voiceless heart,
The love that passeth show!

102

THE FRIEND'S BURIAL.

Yet all about the softening air

Of new-born sweetness tells,
And the ungathered May-flowers wear

The tints of ocean shells.

The old, assuring miracle

Is fresh as heretofore;
And earth takes up its parable

Of life from death once more.

Here organ swell and church-bell toll
Methinks but discord were:

The prayerful silence of the soul

Is best befitting her.

No sound should break the quietude

Alike of earth and sky;

O wandering wind in Seabrook wood,
Breathe but a half-heard sigh!

Sing softly, spring-bird, for her sake,
And thou not distant sea,
Lapse lightly as if Jesus spake,
And thou wert Galilee!

For all her quiet life flowed on
As meadow streamlets flow,
Where fresher green reveals alone
The noiseless ways they go.

103

THE FRIEND'S BURIAL.

From her loved place of prayer I see
The plain-robed mourners pass,
With slow feet treading reverently

The graveyard's springing grass.

Make room, O mourning ones, for me,
Where, like the friends of Paul,
That you no more her face shall see
You sorrow most of all.

Her path shall brighten more and more
Unto the perfect day;

She cannot fail of peace who bore
Such peace with her away.

sweet, calm face that seemed to wear
The look of sins forgiven!

O voice of prayer that seemed to bear
Our own needs up to heaven.

How reverent in our midst she stood,
Or knelt in grateful praise!
What grace of Christian womanhood
Was in her household ways!

For still her holy living meant

No duty left undone;

The heavenly and the human blent

Their kindred loves in one.

104

THE FRIEND'S BURIAL.

And if her life small leisure found
For feasting ear and eye,

And pleasure, on her daily round,
She passed unpausing by,-

Yet with her went a secret sense
Of all things sweet and fair,
And beauty's gracious providence
Refreshed her unaware.

She kept her line of rectitude

With love's unconscious ease;
Her kindly instincts understood
All gentle courtesies.

An inborn charm of graciousness
Made sweet her smile and tone,
And glorified her farm-wife dress
With beauty not its own.

The dear Lord's best interpreters
Are humble human souls;
The Gospel of a life like hers

Is more than books or scrolls.

From scheme and creed the light goes out,
The saintly fact survives;

The blessed Master none can doubt

Revealed in holy lives.

JOHN G. WHITTIER.