O, sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done
The voice that now is speaking may be beyond the sun,—­
Forever and forever with those just souls and true,—­
And what is life, that we should moan? why make we such ado?

Forever and forever, all in a blessed home,—­
And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come,—­
To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast,—­
And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

ON ANNE ALLEN.

The wind blew keenly from the Western sea,
And drove the dead leaves slanting from the tree—­
   Vanity of vanities, the Preacher saith—­
Heaping them up before her Father’s door
When I saw her whom I shall see no more—­
   We cannot bribe thee, Death.

She went abroad the falling leaves among,
She saw the merry season fade, and sung—­
   Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith—­
Freely she wandered in the leafless wood,
And said that all was fresh, and fair, and good—­
   She knew thee not, O Death.

She bound her shining hair across her brow,
She went into the garden fading now;
   Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith—­
And if one sighed to think that it was sere,
She smiled to think that it would bloom next year! 
   She feared thee not, O Death.

Blooming she came back to the cheerful room
With all the fairer flowers yet in bloom—­
   Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith—­
A fragrant knot for each of us she tied,
And placed the fairest at her Father’s side—­
   She cannot charm thee, Death.

Her pleasant smile spread sunshine upon all;
We heard her sweet clear laughter in the Hall—­
  Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith—­
We heard her sometimes after evening prayer,
As she went singing softly up the stair—­
  No voice can charm thee, Death.

Where is the pleasant smile, the laughter kind,
That made sweet music of the winter wind? 
  Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith—­
Idly they gaze upon her empty place,
Her kiss hath faded from her Father’s face—­
  She is with thee, O Death.

EDWARD FITZGERALD.

SONNET.

     (SUGGESTED BY MR. WATTS’S PICTURE OF LOVE AND DEATH.)

Yea, Love is strong as life; he casts out fear,
And wrath, and hate, and all our envious foes;
He stands upon the threshold, quick to close
The gate of happiness ere should appear
Death’s dreaded presence—­ay, but Death draws near,
And large and gray the towering outline grows,
Whose face is veiled and hid; and yet Love knows
Full well, too well, alas! that Death is here. 
Death tramples on the roses; Death comes in,
Though Love, with outstretched arms and wings outspread,
Would bar the way—­poor Love, whose wings begin
To droop, half-torn as are the roses dead
Already at his feet—­but Death must win,
And Love grows faint beneath that ponderous tread!