There is no death! the leaves may fall. 
  The flowers may fade and pass away—­
They only wait, through wintry hours,
  The warm sweet breath of May.

There is no death! the choicest gifts
  That heaven hath kindly lent to earth
Are ever first to seek again
  The country of their birth.

And all things that for growth of joy
  Are worthy of our love or care,
Whose loss has left us desolate,
  Are safely garnered there.

Though life become a dreary waste,
  We know its fairest, sweetest flowers,
Transplanted into paradise,
  Adorn immortal bowers.

The voice of bird-like melody
  That we have missed and mourned so long
Now mingles with the angel choir
  In everlasting song.

There is no death! although we grieve
  When beautiful, familiar forms
That we have learned to love are torn
  From our embracing arms;

Although with bowed and breaking heart,
  With sable garb and silent tread,
We bear their senseless dust to rest,
  And say that they are “dead.”

They are not dead! they have but passed
  Beyond the mists that blind us here
Into the new and larger life
  Of that serener sphere.

They have but dropped their robe of clay
  To put their shining raiment on;
They have not wandered far away—­
  They are not “lost” or “gone.”

Though disenthralled and glorified,
  They still are here and love us yet;
The dear ones they have left behind
  They never can forget.

And sometimes, when our hearts grow faint
  Amid temptations fierce and deep,
Or when the wildly raging waves
  Of grief or passion sweep,

We feel upon our fevered brow
  Their gentle touch, their breath of balm;
Their arms enfold us, and our hearts
  Grow comforted and calm.

And ever near us, though unseen,
  The dear, immortal spirits tread;
For all the boundless universe
  Is life—­there are no dead.

JAMES L. M’CREERY.

1863.

GOING AND COMING.

Going—­the great round Sun,
  Dragging the captive Day
Over behind the frowning hill,
  Over beyond the bay,—­
          Dying: 
Coming—­the dusky Night,
  Silently stealing in,
Wrapping himself in the soft warm couch
  Where the golden-haired Day hath been
          Lying.

Going—­the bright, blithe Spring;
  Blossoms! how fast ye fall,
Shooting out of your starry sky
  Into the darkness all
          Blindly! 
Coming—­the mellow days: 
  Crimson and yellow leaves;
Languishing purple and amber fruits
  Kissing the bearded sheaves
          Kindly!

Going—­our early friends;
  Voices we loved are dumb;
Footsteps grow dim in the morning dew;
  Fainter the echoes come
          Ringing: 
Coming to join our march,—­
  Shoulder to shoulder pressed,—­
Gray-haired veterans strike their tents
  For the far-off purple West—­
          Singing!