O Death, what art thou? strange and solemn Alchymist,

Elaborating life's elixir from these clayey crucibles :

O Death, what art thou? Antitype of Nature's marvels,

The seed and dormant chrysalis bursting into

energy and glory.

Thou calm safe anchorage for the shattered hulls of men,

Thou spot of gelid shade, after the hot-breathed desert,

Thou silent waiting-hall, where Adam meeteth with his children,—

How full of dread, how full of hope, loometh inevitable Death:

Of dread, for all have sinned; of hope, for One hath saved:

The dread is drowned in joy, the hope is filled with immortality!

-Pass along, pilgrim of life, go to thy grave unfearing,

The terrors are but shadows now, that haunt the vale of Death.

M. F. TUPPER.

Proverbial Philosophy. (Ward, Lock, and Co.)

XXII.

COME, lovely and soothing Death,
Undulate round the world, serenely arriving,
In the day, in the night, to all, to each,
Sooner or later, delicate Death.

Praised be the fathomless universe,

For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious,

And for love, sweet love.-But praise! praise ! praise !

For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding Death.

Dark Mother, always gliding near, with soft feet, Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome?

Then I chant it for thee-I glorify thee above all; I bring thee a song that, when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly.

In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion,
By guardian angels led,

Safe from temptation, safe from Sin's pollution,
She lives, whom we call dead.

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.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

The Seaside and the Fireside: Poetical Works. (Routledge.)

DEATH.

WE thank Thee, Lord, for the joys
Thou hast given on earth to man ;
Though too fast his pleasure cloys,
And his days are but a span :
We thank Thee for Love and Strife,
And the glancing of happy eyes,

For the burning bliss of Life,

And Reason, that never lies. We thank Thee for Friends that are dear; We thank Thee for living breath; For our Knowledge and Pleasure here;But we thank Thee most for Death!

A. R. EAGAR. Prometheus. (Ponsonby, Dublin.)

XXII.

WAITING BY THE GATE.

BESIDE a massive gateway, built up in years gone by, Upon whose top the clouds in eternal shadow lie,

And I again am sooth'd, and, beside the ancient gate,

In this soft evening sunlight, I calmly stand and wait.

I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for me. The tree-tops faintly rustle beneath the breeze's flight,

A soft and soothing sound, yet it whispers of the night;

I hear the wood-thrush piping one mellow descant more,

go out,

The sweet smile quench'd for ever, and still'd the sprightly shout.

Oh frail, frail tree of Life, that upon the greensward strows

Its fair young buds unopen'd, with every wind that blows!

Behold the portals open, and o'er the threshold,

now,

There steps a weary one with a pale and furrow'd brow;

His count of years is full, his allotted task is wrought;

He passes to his rest from a place that needs him

not.

In sadness then I ponder how quickly fleets the hour Of human strength and action, man's courage and his power.

I muse while still the wood-thrush sings down the golden day,

And as I look and listen the sadness wears away.

Again the hinges turn, and a youth, departing, throws

A look of longing backward, and sorrowfully goes; A blooming maid, unbinding the roses from her hair, Moves mournfully away from amidst the young and fair.

Oh glory of our race that so suddenly decays!

Oh crimson flush of morning that darkens as we gaze!

Oh breath of summer blossoms that on the restless air

Scatters a moment's sweetness and flies we know not where !

I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn ;

But still the sun shines round me the evening bird sings on,

The strong and faint of spirit, the meek and men

of pride.

Steps of earth's great and mighty, between those pillars gray,

And prints of little feet, mark the dust along the way.

And some approach the threshold whose looks are blank with fear,

And some whose temples brighten with joy in drawing near,

As if they saw dear faces, and caught the gracious eye

Of Him, the Sinless Teacher, who came for us to die.

I mark the joy, the terror, yet these, within my heart,

Can neither wake the dread nor the longing to depart;

And, in the sunshine streaming on quiet wood and

lea,

I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for me. W. C. BRYANT. Poems. (K. Paul.)

XXII.

No: I shall pass into the Morning Land.
As now from sleep into the life of morn;
Live the new life of the new world, unshorn
Of the swift brain, the executing hand;

See the dense darkness suddenly withdrawn,
As when Orion's sightless eyes discerned the dawn.

I shall behold it: I shall see the utter
Glory of sunrise heretofore unseen,
Freshening the woodland ways with brighter

green,

And calling into life all things that flutter,
All throats of music and all eyes of light,
And driving o'er the verge the intolerable night.
MORTIMER COLLINS.

The Inn of Strange Meetings. (K. Paul)

XXII. DEATH.

"OH autumn fires, that in the forest glow
Stealing the life therefrom with open theft,
Till under every tree the warp and weft
Wrought by the summer, lies despoiled and low;
Oh winds that lift those fading leaves, and blow
Across the shorn and empty fields bereft
Of harvest treasure, Is there nothing left
Of joy or comeliness that will not show
Sooner or later traces of decay?

Must all our summers blossom but to fade?"
And the low wind replies with wailing breath,

Drifting the leaves apart that yesterday
Dwelt side by side, "There is no respite made.
The only certainty of life is death!"

MARY ROWLES.

NAY, Death, thou art a shadow! Even as light
Is but the shadow of invisible God,
And of that shade the shadow is thin Night,
Veiling the earth whereon our feet have trod ;
So art Thou but the shadow of this life,.
Itself the pale and unsubstantial shade
Of living God, fulfilled by love and strife
Throughout the universe Himself hath made:
And as frail Night, following the flight of earth,
Obscures the world we breathe in, for a while,
So Thou, the reflex of our mortal birth,
Veilest the life wherein we weep and smile:

But when both earth and life are whirled away,
What shade can shroud us from God's deathless
day?
J. A. SYMONDS.
Many Moods. (Smith, Elder, and Co.)

XXII.

LIFE.

"OH happy sunbeams, weaving on the hills

And in the vales so lately bare and cold, Your far-spread tapestries of green and gold; Oh new sweet music of the birds and rills That, wedded to the silence, now fulfils And utters all its yearnings manifoldWhat profiteth your joyance, since of old Its end was fixed, and death all gladness stills ?" The dimpled leaves swung lightly, zephyr-stirred, The cadence of the waters sweeter rose,

And from the hill-top where, in pain and strife Last summer perished, came the fearless word, "Yea death is sure, but joy beyond it goes, For the great afterward of death is life!" MARY ROWLES.

Nor trouble dim the lustre wont to glitter In happy eyes. Decay alone decays:

A moment death's dull sleep is o'er; and we Drink the immortal morning air, Earine.

MORTIMER COLLINS. The Inn of Strange Meetings. (K. Paul.)

XXII.

OLD AGE.

OLD Age! The sound is harsh and grates :
Yet well the old might say, "In sooth
Younger we grow when near the gates
Of everlasting youth!"

ALEXANDER R. EAGAR.

XXII.

So live that, when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan that moves

Yea, thou shalt know death's strange embrace ere long;

Where Keats and Shelley trod, art thou afraid To tread, through sweet death's genius-lighted glade?

Women have died and made the pathway sweet. Fair women have not quailed

Death's gaze to meet,—

Have bravely met the sword-thrust that assailed.
Art thou afraid, where these have gone, to go?
To tread the darkling vale where roses blow?

For surely in the valley of death they shine:
These have not passed away,

But still they twine.

Love's tender blossoms as in earth's glad day. Where woman is, must life and love prevail; Not even at Death's kiss doth her cheek turn pale!

Thousands have trodden the weird path along; The mystic way gleams bright

With flowers the throng

Have wildly, fiercely, scattered in their flight. Blossoms past numbering on the path behold! Some white, some flame-flushed; some of burning gold.

XXII.

[From "To David in Heaven."]

MUST it last for ever,

The passionate endeavour,

Ay, have you, there in heaven, hearts to throb and still aspire?

In the life you know now,
Render'd white as snow now,

Doth a fresh mountain-range arise, and beckon higher-higher ?

Are you dreaming, dreaming,
Is your Soul still roaming,

Still gazing upward as we gazed, of old, in the autumn gloaming!

ROBERT BUCHANAN. Poetical Works, Vol. I.

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XXII.

ON THE THRESHOLD.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "EZEKIEL, AND OTHER POEMS."
ONLY to stand on the Threshold

Of the holy and beautiful home,
To hear the rush of the music
Under the crystal dome,
When the radiant saints and the angels
Are standing to bless the King,
And the glorious tones of their anthem
Through all the gateways ring.

Or to hear in the heavenly silence,
Silence as sweet as song,
The still small voice that floweth
The golden streets along;
The voice of Him that liveth,

And once was dead for me,
The voice that in old time sounded
By the waves of Galilee.