Peace charmed the street beneath her feet,
    And honor charmed the air,
  And all astir looked kind on her,
    And called her good as fair;
  For all God ever gave to her,
    She kept with chary care.

  She kept with care her beauties rare,
    From lovers warm and true;
  For her heart was cold to all but gold,
    And the rich came not to woo. 
  Ah, honored well, are charms to sell,
    When priests the selling do!

  Now, walking there, was one more fair—­
    A slight girl, lily pale,
  And she had unseen company
    To make the spirit quail;
  ’Twixt want and scorn, she walked forlorn,
    And nothing could avail.

  No mercy now can clear her brow
    For this world’s peace to pray;
  For, as love’s wild prayer dissolved in air,
    Her woman’s heart gave way,
  And the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven
    By man is cursed alway.

* * * * *

=_Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 1807-._= (Manual, pp. 503, 505, 519, 531.)

=_367._= LINES TO RESIGNATION.

  There is no flock, however watched and tended
    But one dead lamb is there! 
  There is no fireside, howso’er defended,
    But has one vacant chair!

  The air is full of farewells to the dying,
    And mournings for the dead;
  The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,
    Will not be comforted!

  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;
    Amid these earthly damps,
  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,—­
     But gone unto that school
  Where she no longer needs our poor protection,
    And Christ himself doth rule.

  In that great cloister’s stillness and seclusion,
    By guardian angels led,
  Safe from temptation, safe from sin’s pollution,
    She lives, whom we call dead.

  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,
  Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken,
    May reach her where she lives.

  Not as a child shall we again behold her;
    For when with raptures wild
  In our embraces we again enfold her,
    She will not be a child;

  But a fair maiden, in her Father’s mansion,
    Clothed with celestial grace;
  And beautiful with all the soul’s expansion
    Shall we behold her face.