Will beam on us in our sorrow;
And, though clouded be our sky,
We know there’ll be a better morrow.
We know that all will not depart,
That some will, gather round to cheer us:
Know we, in our inmost heart,
Tried and faithful friends are near us.
Brother, those who do not go
May be deemd friends forever;
Love them, trust them, have them know
Nothing can your friendship sever.
Tie that bound thyself to earth
Now is sundered,
And is numbered
With those of a heavenly birth.
She hath left thee.
God bereft thee
Of thy dearest earthly friend;
Yet thou’lt meet her,
Thou wilt greet her
Where reunions have no end
Her life’s true sun
Its course did run
From morn unto meridian day;
And now at eve
It takes its leave,
Calmly passing hence away.
Watch the spirit-
’T will inherit
Bliss which mortal cannot tell;
World, my mother,
Angels whisper, “All is well.”
’Way with sadness!
There is gladness
In a gathered spirit throng;
Joins their ranks and chants their song.
Weep not, mother,
Tie doth bind thyself above;
Doubts are vanished,
She is happy whom you love.
RICH AND POOR.
“Good-by, Ray, good-by,” said George Greenville; and the stage wound its way slowly up a steep ascent, and was soon lost to view.
“Well, well, he has gone. Glad of it, heartily glad of it! When will all these paupers be gone?” said the father of George, as he entered the richly-furnished parlor, and seated himself beside an open window.
“Why so glad?” inquired George, who listened with feelings of regret to the remark.
“Why?” resumed the owner of a thousand acres; “ask me no questions; I am glad,—that’s enough. You well know my mind on the subject.”
“Father, act not thus. Is this a suitable way to requite his kindness?”
“Kindness!” interrupted the old man; “say not ’t was kindness that prompted him to do me a favor; rather say ’t was his duty,—and of you should I not expect better things? Did I allow you to visit Lemont but to become acquainted with such a poverty-stricken, pauper-bred youth as Ray Bland?”
Saying this, he arose and left the room.