To Emma Willard, On Her Eightieth Birthday

                              I.
Through fourscore years thy stream of life hath run,
     Not with vain flow; for in its course are seen
     Fields filled with harvests, sand-wastes clothed with green, 
The strength and beauty of thy benison! 
For noble was thy work, and nobly done;
     Not for mean praise, nor yet for meaner pelf.
     But with full consecration of thyself 
To the great task in love and faith begun.
     Now thou art blessed; for lo! on every side 
Thy life's rich fruits in other lives appear, 
Its bounteous largess growing year by year,
     And year by year its blessings multiplied. 
So shalt thou live, while ages onward roll, 
In grand impulses from thy own great soul.

                              II.
As the shades lengthen, may the sunset sky
     Assume for thee its purest, tenderest light,"
     A prelude of that glory infinite 
In which thy spirit shall bathe immortally 
When earthly scenes have faded from thine eye.
     God's arms enfold thee! and in tranquil rest,
     After long toil, sink sweetly on His breast, 
And know that His dear children cannot die;
     But, gently lapsing to an ampler life 
Through the brief sleep we misname death, awake 
In His most glorious likeness, for whose sake
     They come, crowned victors from their mortal strife, 
And know thenceforth the joys that never cease,
The endless triumph, and the perfect peace.