* * * * *

                          As the long train
  Of ages glide away, the sons of men,
  The youth in life’s green spring, and he who goes
  In the full strength of years, matron, and maid,
  And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man,—­
  Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,
  By those, who in their turn shall follow them. 
    So live, that when thy summons comes to join
  The innumerable caravan, that moves
  To that mysterious realm where each shall take
  His chamber in the silent halls of death,
  Thou go not like the quarry-slave at night,
  Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
  By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
  Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
  About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

* * * * *

  =_341._= THE LIVING LOST.

  Matron! the children of whose love,
    Each to his grave, in youth had passed,
  and now the mould is heaped above
    The dearest and the last! 
  Bride! who dost wear the widow’s veil
  Before the wedding flowers are pale! 
  Ye deem the human heart endures
  No deeper, bitterer grief than yours.

  Yet there are pangs of keener wo,
    Of which the sufferers never speak,
  Nor to the world’s cold pity show
    The tears that scald the cheek,
  Wrung from their eyelids by the shame
  And guilt of those they shrink to name,
  Whom once they loved with cheerful will,
  And love, though fallen and branded, still.

  Weep, ye who sorrow for the dead;
    Thus breaking hearts their pain relieve;
  And reverenced are the tears ye shed. 
    And honored ye who grieve. 
  The praise of those who sleep in earth,
  The pleasant memory of their worth,
  The hope to meet when life is past,
  Shall heal the tortured mind at last.

  But ye, who for the living lost
    That agony in secret bear,
  Who shall with soothing words accost
    The strength of your despair? 
  Grief for your sake is scorn for them
  Whom ye lament, and all condemn;
  And o’er the world of spirits lies
  A gloom from which ye turn your eyes.

* * * * *

=_342._= THE SONG OF THE SOWER.

    Brethren, the sower’s task is done. 
  The seed is in its Winter bed. 
  Now let the dark-brown mould be spread,
    To hide it from the sun,
  And leave it to the kindly care
  Of the still earth and brooding air. 
  As when the mother, from her breast,
  Lays the hushed babe apart to rest,
  And shades its eyes, and waits to see
  How sweet its waking smile will be. 
  The tempest now may smite, the sleet
  All night on the drowned furrow beat,
  And winds that from the cloudy hold
  Of winter, breathe the bitter cold,