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'ON THE DEATH OP S. O. TORREY.
Gone before us, O our brother,
To the spirit-land!
In thy place to stand.
On the wasting shrine
With a faith like thine?
Oh ! thy gentle smile of greeting
Who again shall see?
Gaze again on thee ?—
Wear so calm a brow?
So serene as thou?
Early hath the spoiler found thee,
Brother of our love 1
And its storms above!
And, with future showers,
Blow the summer flowers 1
In the locks thy forehead gracing,
Not a silvery streak;
On thy fair young cheek;
Such as Hylas wore— Over all that curtain closes,
Which shall rise no more!
Will the vigil Love is keeping
Round that grave of thine,
Over Sibmah's vine 5—
Gentle hearts, of thee,
All unheeded be?
If the spirit ever gazes,
From its journeyings, back;
O'er its mortal track;
Sometimes on our way,
As a spirit may?
Peace be with thee, O our brother,
In the spirit-land I
In thy place to stand.
All thy early powers,
And thy spirit ours!
-" The parted spirit,
Knoweth it not our sorrow? Ansvrereth not
The circle is broken—pne seat is forsaken,—
A LAMENT. 69
Weep!—lonely and lowly, are slumbering now The light of her glances, the pride of her brow, Weep !—sadly and long shall we listen in vain To hear the soft tones of her welcome again.
Give our tears to the dead! For humanity**
claim From its silence and darkness is ever the same; The hope of that World whose existence is
For, oh! if one glance the freed spirit can throw
dead— To that glance will be dearer the tears which we
Oh, who can forget the mild light of her smile, Over, lips moved with music and feeling the while— The eye's deep enchantment, dark, dream-like,
and clear, In the glow of its gladness—the shade of its tear.
And the charm of her features, while over the
whole Played the hues of the heart and the sunshine of
soul,— And the tones of her voice, like the music which
seems Murmured low in our ears by the Angel of dreams I
But holier and dearer our memories hold
Those treasures of feeling, more precious than
gold— The love and the kindness and pity which gave Fresh flowers for the bridal, green wreaths for the
The heart ever open to Charity's claim,
How true to our hearts was that beautiful sleeper
weeper!— Yet, evermore prompt, whether mournful or gay, With warnings in love to the passing astray.
For, though spotless herself, she could sorrow for
them Who sullied with evil the spirit's pure gem; And a sigh or a tear could the erring reprove, And the sting of reproof was still tempered by
As a cloud of the sunset, slow melting in heaven,
[daniel Wheeler, a minister of the Society of Friends, and who had labored in the cause of his Divine Master in Great Britain, Russia, and the islands of the Pacific, died in New York in the spring of 1840, while on a religious visit to this country.]
Oh, dearly loved!
DANIEL WHEELER. 71
They bore unquestioned evidence
The world, its time and sense, shut out— The brightness of Faith's holy trance Gathered upon thy countenance,
As if each lingering cloud of doubt—
Were lifted by an angel's hand,
The glory of the Better Land!
The oak has fallen!
Thy feet with Zion's dews still wet,
And in thy hand retaining yet
Across the Neva's cold morass
With winter's arrowy keenness pass; Or, where the unwarning tropic gale Smote to the waves thy tattered sail, Or, where the noon-hour's fervid heat Against Tahiti's mountains beat;
The same mysterious hand which gave
Deliverance upon land and wave, Tempered for thee the blasts which blew
Ladaga'e frozen surface o'er, 4nd blessed for thee the baleful dew
Of evening upon Eimeo's shore, Beneath thiy sunny heaven of ours,