A. C. R.

The wealth of love which dwelt within thy heart—
     The generous impulses that stirred thy soul—
     Thy lofty faith asserting its control
O’er fear and doubt—the hope which seemed a part
Of thy existence, making all things bright
     That thine eye looked upon—died these with thee,
Oh, friend beloved! when darkly closed the night
     Of death around thee? Sure, it cannot be!
     For love like thine must live immortally
In some pure sphere where comes, nor cold, nor blight.
So art thou blest!—and we who o’er thy dust
     Pour unavailing tears, weep not that thou
     Dost wear Heaven’s radiance on thy starry brow—
But for ourselves alone—yet God is just!