"THEY ARE ALL GONE"

FRIENDS DEPARTED

THEY are all gone into the world of light!
And I alone sit lingering here;
Their very memory is fair and bright,
And my sad thoughts doth clear.

It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,
Like stars upon some gloomy grove,

Or those faint beams in which this hill is dressed
After the sun's remove.

I see them walking in an air of glory,

Whose light doth trample on my days:
My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,
Mere glimmering and decays.

O holy Hope! and high Humility,

High as the heavens above!

These are your walks, and you have showed them me, To kindle my cold love.

Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the Just!

Shining nowhere, but in the dark;

What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,

Could man outlook that mark!

He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may know,

At first sight, if the bird be flown;

But what fair dell or grove he sings in now,

That is to him unknown.

And yet, as Angels in some brighter dreams

Call to the soul, when man doth sleep,

So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes, And into glory peep.

We know she is safe on the farther side,
Where all the ransomed and angels be:
Over the river, the mystic river,

My childhood's idol is waiting for me.

For none return from those quiet shores,
Who cross with the boatman cold and pale;
We hear the dip of the golden oars,

And catch a gleam of the snowy sail;

And lo! they have passed from our yearning hearts,
They cross the stream and are gone for aye.
We may not sunder the veil apart

That hides from our vision the gates of day;
We only know that their barks no more

May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea;
Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore,
They watch, and beckon, and wait for me.

And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold
Is flushing river and hill and shore,

I shall one day stand by the water cold,

And list for the sound of the boatman's oar;
I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail,
I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand,
I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale,
To the better shore of the spirit land.
I shall know the loved who have gone before,
And joyfully sweet will the meeting be,
When over the river, the peaceful river,
The angel of death shall carry me.

Nancy Woodbury Priest [1836-1870]

RESIGNATION

THERE is no flock, however watched and tended,

But one dead lamb is there!

There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,

But has one vacant chair!

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 [1807-1882]

AFTERWARD

THERE is no vacant chair. The loving meet,
A group unbroken-smitten, who knows how?

One sitteth silent only, in his usual seat;

We gave him once that freedom. Why not now?

Perhaps he is too weary, and needs rest;

He needed it so often, nor could we

Bestow. God gave it, knowing how to do so best.
Which of us would disturb him? Let him be.

There is no vacant chair. If he will take

The mood to listen mutely, be it done.

By his least mood we crossed, for which the heart must

ache,

Plead not nor question! Let him have this one.