"TILL DEATH US PART"

"TILL death us part,"

Thus speaks the heart

When each to each repeats the words of doom; For better and for worse,

Through blessing and through curse, We shall be one till life's last hour shall come.

Life with its myriad grasp

Our yearning souls shall clasp

By ceaseless love and still expectant wonder; In bonds that shall endure

Indissolubly sure

Till God in death shall part our paths asunder.

Till death us join!

Oh, word yet more divine,

Which to the breaking heart breathes hope sublime!

Through wasted hours,

And shattered powers,

We still are one, despite of change and time.

"TILL DEATH US PART"

Death with his healing hand

Shall knit once more the band,

Which needs but that one link that none may

sever;

Till through the only Good,

Seen, felt, and understood,

The life in God shall make us one forever.

Dean Stanley.

THE DEAD FRIEND

Not to the grave, not to the grave, my soul, Descend to contemplate

The form that once was dear!

The spirit is not there

Which kindled that dead eye,

Which throbbed in that cold heart,

Which in that motionless hand

Hath met thy friendly grasp.

The spirit is not there!

It is but lifeless, perishable flesh

That moulders in the grave,

Earth, air, and water's ministering particles Now to the elements

Resolved, their uses done.

Not to the grave, not to the grave, my soul, Follow thy friend beloved,

The spirit is not there!

Often together have we talked of death:
How sweet it were to see

THE DEAD FRIEND

All doubtful things made clear;
How sweet it were, with powers
Such as the Cherubim,

To view the depth of heaven!
O Edmund! thou hast first
Begun the travel of Eternity!
I look upon the stars,

And think that thou art there,
Unfettered as the thought that follows thee.

And we have often said how sweet it were
With unseen ministry of angel power
To watch the friends we loved.

Edmund, we did not err !

Sure I have felt thy presence! thou hast given A birth to holy thought,

Hast kept me from the world unstained and

pure.

Edmund, we did not err !

Our best affections here,

They are not like the toys of infancy;
The soul outgrows them not;

We do not cast them off.

Oh, if it could be so,

It were indeed a dreadful thing to die!

THE DEAD FRIEND

Not to the grave, not to the grave, my soul, Follow thy friend beloved!

But in the lonely hour,

But in the evening walk,

Think that he companies thy solitude;
Think that he holds with thee

Mysterious intercourse:

And though remembrance wake a tear,

There will be joy in grief.

Robert Southey.