I those shining portals entered,
        Guided by that white-robed one,
    When a glorious light shone round me,
        Brighter than the noonday sun! 
    Friends I met whom death had severed
        From companionship below;
    All were there-and in each feature
        Immortality did glow. 
    I would touch their golden lyres,
        When upon my ear there broke
    Louder music—­at that moment
        I from my glad vision woke. 
    All was silent; scarce a zephyr
        Moved the balmy air of night;
    And the moon, in meekness shining,
        Shed around its hallowed light.

THERE’S HOPE FOR THEE YET.

    What though from life’s bounties thou mayest have fallen? 
        What though thy sun in dark clouds may have set? 
    There is a bright star that illumes the horizon,
        Telling thee truly, “There’s hope for thee yet.” 
    This earth may look dull, old friends may forsake thee;
        Sorrows that never before thou hast met
    May roll o’er thy head; yet that bright star before thee
        Shines to remind thee “there’s hope for thee yet.” 
    ’T is but folly to mourn, though fortune disdain thee,
        Though never so darkly thy sun may have set;
    ’T is wisdom to gaze at the bright star before thee,
        And shout, as you gaze, “There’s hope for me yet.”

SOLILOQUY OVER THE GRAVE OF A WIFE.

    It cannot be that thou art dead; that now
    I watch beside thy grave, and with my tears
    Nourish the flowers that blossom over thee;
    I cannot think that thou art dead and gone;
    That naught remains to me of what thou wert,
    Save that which lieth here,—­dust unto dust. 
    When the bright sun arises, and its rays
    Pass noiseless through my chamber, then methinks
    That thou art with me still; that I can see
    Thy flowing hair; and thy bright glancing eye
    Beams on me with a look none other can. 
    And when at noon life’s busy tumult makes
    My senses reel, and I almost despair,
    Thou comest to me and I’m cheered again;
    Thine own bright smile illuminates my way,
    And one by one the gathered clouds depart,
    Till not a shadow lies upon my path. 
    Night, with its long and sombre shadows, treads
    Upon the steps that morn and noon have trod;
    And, as our children gather round my knee,
    And lisp those evening prayers thy lips have taught,
    I cannot but believe that thou art near. 
    But when they speak of “mother,” when they say
    “’T is a long time since she hath left our side,”
    And when they ask, in their soft infant tones,
    When they again shall meet thee,—­then I feel
    A sudden sadness o’er my spirit come: 
    And when sleep holds them