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.

And though, at times, impetuous with emotion
  And anguish long suppressed,
The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean,
  That cannot be at rest,—­

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling
  We may not wholly stay;
By silence sanctifying, not concealing,
  The grief that must have way.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

CHRISTUS CONSOLATOR.

Beside the dead I knelt for prayer,
    And felt a presence as I prayed. 
Lo! it was Jesus standing there. 
    He smiled:  “Be not afraid!”

“Lord, Thou hast conquered death we know;
    Restore again to life,” I said,
“This one who died an hour ago.” 
    He smiled:  “She is not dead!”

“Asleep then, as thyself did say;
    Yet thou canst lift the lids that keep
Her prisoned eyes from ours away!”
    He smiled:  “She doth not sleep!”

“Nay then, tho’ haply she do wake,
    And look upon some fairer dawn,
Restore her to our hearts that ache!”
    He smiled:  “She is not gone!”

“Alas! too well we know our loss,
    Nor hope again our joy to touch,
Until the stream of death we cross.” 
    He smiled:  “There is no such!”

“Yet our beloved seem so far,
    The while we yearn to feel them near,
Albeit with Thee we trust they are.” 
    He smiled:  “And I am here!”

“Dear Lord, how shall we know that they
    Still walk unseen with us and Thee,
Nor sleep, nor wander far away?”
    He smiled:  “Abide in Me.”

ROSSITER WORTHINGTON RAYMOND.

COMFORT.

Speak low to me, my Saviour, low and sweet
From out the hallelujahs, sweet and low,
Lest I should fear and fall, and miss thee so
Who art not missed by any that entreat. 
Speak to me as Mary at thy feet—­
And if no precious gums my hands bestow,
Let my tears drop like amber, while I go
In reach of thy divinest voice complete
In humanest affection—­thus in sooth,
To lose the sense of losing!  As a child
Whose song-bird seeks the woods forevermore,
Is sung to instead by mother’s mouth;
Till, sinking on her breast, love-reconciled,
He sleeps the faster that he wept before.