The willow hangs with sheltering grace
  And benediction o’er their sod,
And Nature, hushed, assures the soul
    They rest in God.

O weary hearts, what rest is here,
  From all that curses yonder town! 
So deep the peace, I almost long
    To lay me down.

For, oh, it will be blest to sleep,
  Nor dream, nor move, that silent night,
Till wakened in immortal strength
     And heavenly light!

CRAMMOND KENNEDY.

THE DEAD.

The dead abide with us!  Though stark and cold
Earth seems to grip them, they are with us still: 
They have forged our chains of being for good or ill;
And their invisible hands these hands yet hold. 
Our perishable bodies are the mould
In which their strong imperishable will—­
Mortality’s deep yearning to fulfil—­
Hath grown incorporate through dim time untold. 
Vibrations infinite of life in death,
As a star’s travelling light survives its star! 
So may we hold our lives, that when we are
The fate of those who then will draw this breath,
They shall not drag us to their judgment-bar,
And curse the heritage which we bequeath.

MATHILDE BLIND.

ON A GRAVE AT GRINDELWALD.

Here let us leave him; for his shroud the snow,
  For funeral-lamps he has the planets seven,
For a great sign the icy stair shall go
  Between the heights to heaven.

One moment stood he as the angels stand,
  High in the stainless eminence of air;
The next, he was not, to his fatherland
  Translated unaware.

FREDERIC WILLIAM HENRY MYERS.

THE EMIGRANT LASSIE.

As I came wandering down Glen Spean,
  Where the braes are green and grassy,
With my light step I overtook
  A weary-footed lassie.

She had one bundle on her back,
  Another in her hand,
And she walked as one who was full loath
  To travel from the land.

Quoth I, “My bonnie lass!”—­for she
  Had hair of flowing gold,
And dark brown eyes, and dainty limbs,
  Right pleasant to behold—­

“My bonnie lass, what aileth thee,
  On this bright summer day,
To travel sad and shoeless thus
  Upon the stony way?

“I’m fresh and strong, and stoutly shod,
  And thou art burdened so;
March lightly now, and let me bear
  The bundles as we go.”

“No, no!” she said, “that may not be;
  What’s mine is mine to bear;
Of good or ill, as God may will,
  I take my portioned share.”

“But you have two, and I have none;
  One burden give to me;
I’ll take that bundle from thy back
  That heavier seems to be.

“No, no!” she said; “this, if you will,
  That holds—­no hand but mine
May bear its weight from dear Glen Spean
  ’Cross the Atlantic brine!”