S.J.B.

     Dear heart, gone on before,
     Into the silence of the Evermore, 
          We cannot let thee pass away, 
          Without one warm memorial lay, 
          From all our flooded hearts to-day,
     As we stand hushed upon the voiceless shore,
And see thy pale form in Its slender bark
Drift from our clinging arms into the luminous dark.

          Not lost! ah, no, not lost!
     In the all-golden mist,
     That veils the eternal splendors which exist
          On that diviner coast,
     Where the dim angel at the helm
          Guides thee with tender hand
     Into His mystic realm,-
          Into that Better Land,
Where all our loved, redeemed from mortal ills, 
Wave white-palmed welcomes from a thousand hills!

          Not lost, O blessed soul!
          Not lost, but moving to thy loftier goal;
     Drawn, in a peaceful slumber, out of sight, 
     The last smile melting in ethereal light,
Like the white star of morning growing faint, 
In depths of glory, or a raptured saint 
Immersed in her own golden aureole,—
Unseen, with larger presence, indistinct, 
By ties more subtle to our being linked.

          Ah! no, sweet Friend!
          There is no end
     To the dear clasp by which our inmost hearts 
     Are bound to thine!
The weary clay departs,
But the clear soul has chords that intertwine 
With all our tenderest recollections, 
With all our holiest aspirations.
The sweet, sweet past with mellowed retrospections,
And the weird future's wondrous intimations,-
The twin, soft twilights of before and yonder, 
Warm in the golden mist of memory and wonder.

By all the pities thy true nature gave
     To the world-weary and forlorn,
To the pale outcast and the dusky slave, 
     And the poor child to vice and misery born, 
In thy own sheltered fold
Wrapped away from storm and cold, 
Thy generous life hath taken hold 
     Of the great struggling human life, whereby
It made itself a part 
Of the wide world's mighty heart.
     A pulse of good that cannot change nor die!

In our own strengthened lives
Thy silent strength survives,
Victor o'er death and time, 
By humble faith sublime.
By all thy conquering patience under loss,
     Bearing with radiant smile a life long cross
          Serenely putting by
          All the divine, sweet hopes that brood 
     In the deep heart of opening womanhood, 
          And even the blessed cares that sanctify
The life they sadden—all its wreaths foregone, 
Myrtle and orange-bloom, to wear for crown 
Only the thorns of pain! O victor soul unknown!
               In silent service fain,
          All-blessing, doubly blest, —
          No careless eye had guessed
                    Out of what secret flame,
                    Thy soul's pure silver came,
At what veiled forge-fire thy life's Moulder furnaced
That nature, buoyant, beautiful and earnest,
Drawn out of deeps no cumbering ills could smother;
     Robbed of the outward crown, 
     Yet inly, perfect grown,
True as the wife, and tender as the mother!

     We can but miss, oh ever miss, 
          The dally, visible presence, 
          With its Ineffable pleasance,
The welcoming grasp, the sisterly parting kiss, 
     The words that came and went alternate lit 
With cool, clear sense and corruscating wit,—
          The brown eyes' lambent glow
          So full of inward light,
That welled out with a twinkling overflow, 
     Like a pure, sunlit spring, 
Stirred by a swallow's wing
That only mocks thy fancy's arrowy flight!
     Ah me! no longer heard
The gracious greeting and the sparkling word
     That gave warm welcome to a hunted truth, 
     A worthy aspiration, or in sooth,
Touched a grave lie with lightning, kindly glanced 
     To spare the inventor!
               Thy pale lips entranced
In everlasting silence, bring but awe,
Not gloom, nor terror; eyes that shed no more
               The tender light we saw 
               In days so sweet before, 
               Shut, under icy lids,
     A mystery, but a mystery that forbids 
     Weak sorrow and vain doubt. and that unfaith 
     That flings its weight against the adamant door
               Of sacred Death—
               Too eager to explore
What the pale Warder's silent lips conceal, 
That some near day, unchallenged, shall reveal.

          Darling! in solemn trust, 
          We give thy dust to dust,
Thy soul to the great Father and Mother-God,—
And gathering mutely o'er this frozen clod,
          Lifting our misty eyes
          To thy pure summer skies,
Look through the frost-air to the eternal sun, 
And see thee soar to thy new life begun, 
A tall white Angel, with the same sweet smile, 
Sent back to cheer us for a little while;—
          And, filled with that glad sight, 
          We will not say "Good Night!" 
But, for a moment, in calm faith, awalt 
To say "Good Morning!" at the golden gate!