O God! my sainted mother’s face Gleamed through the deepening shades of death, And from her lips these words of grace Fell gently as the evening’s breath: “Child of my love, I gave to earth Thy mortal form in grief and pain-- Lo! now, in this, thy second birth, I lend my strength to thee again.” That angel-presence stood revealed, To her who sat beside my bed; Our quivering lips Love’s compact sealed, And one, brief, parting word was said. Then, leaning like a weary child My head upon my mother’s breast, She bore me, changed and reconciled, To the fair dwellings of the blest. But oft at morn, or close of day, I feel the love that toward me yearns, And earthward, o’er the starry way, My answering spirit gladly turns. O Death! O Grave! before Heaven’s light Thy gloomy phantoms quickly fly; And man shall learn _this_ truth aright-- That he must _change_, but shall not _die_! Shall change, as doth the summer rose, The evening light, the closing year; Shall sink into a sweet repose, To waken in a happier sphere;-- Shall fall, as falls the harvest grain-- The ripened ears of golden corn, Which yields its life, that yet again, Through ceaseless change, it be re-born. God of the Granite and the Rose! Soul of the Sparrow and the Bee! The mighty tide of Being flows Through all thy creatures back to Thee. Thus round and round the circle runs-- A mighty sea without a shore-- While men and angels, stars and suns, Unite to praise Thee evermore! HOPE FOR THE SORROWING. [A poem delivered at the funeral service of Mr. Henry L. Kingman, of North Bridgewater, Mass., November, 1862.] Ye holy ministers of Love, Blest dwellers in the upper spheres, In vain we fix our gaze above, For we are blinded by our tears. O, tell us to what land unknown The soul of him we love has flown? He left us when his manly heart With earnest hope was beating high; Too soon it seemed for us to part; Too soon, alas! for him to die. We have the tenement of clay, But aye the soul has passed away. Away, into the unknown dark, With fearless heart and steady hand, He calmly launched his fragile bark, To seek the spirits’ Father Land. Say, has he reached some distant shore. To speak with us on earth no more? We gaze into unmeasured space, And lift our tearful eyes above, To catch the gleaming of his face, Or one light whisper of his love. O God! O Angels! hear our cry, Nor let our faith in darkness die! Hark! for a voice of gentle tone The answer to our cry hath given, Soft as Æolian harpstrings blown, Responsive to the breath of even-- “I have not sought a distant shore; Lo! I am with you--weep no more.