GONE IS GONE, AND DEAD IS DEAD. “On returning to the inn, he found there a wandering minstrel--a woman--singing, and accompanying her voice with the music of a harp. The burden of her song was, ‘Gone is gone, and dead is dead.’ The utter hopelessness of these words filled his soul with anguish. ‘O,’ he exclaimed, ‘thou loved and lost one! patient and long-suffering, would that I could call thee back again, not to forgive me--O, no!--but rather that I might have the consolation of showing thee, by my repentance, how differently I would conduct towards thee now.”--JEAN PAUL RICHTER. “Gone is gone, and dead is dead!” Words to hopeless sorrow wed-- Words from deepest anguish wrung, Which a lonely wand’rer sung, While her harp prolonged the strain, Like a spirit’s cry of pain When all hope with life is fled: “Gone is gone, and dead is dead.” Mournful singer! hearts unknown Thrill responsive to that tone; By a common weal and woe, Kindred sorrows all must know. Lips all tremulous with pain Oft repeat that sad refrain When the fatal shaft is sped-- “Gone is gone, and dead is dead.” Pain and death are everywhere-- In the earth, and sea, and air; And the sunshine’s golden glance, And the heaven’s serene expanse, With a silence calm and high, Seem to mock that mournful cry Wrung from hearts by hope unfed-- “Gone is gone, and dead is dead.” O, ye sorrowing ones, arise; Wipe the tear-drops from your eyes; Lift your faces to the light; Read Death’s mystery aright. Life unfolds from life within, And with death does life begin. Of the soul can ne’er be said, “Gone is gone, and dead is dead.” As the stars, which, one by one, Lit their torches at the sun, And across ethereal space Swept each to its destined place, So the soul’s Promethean fire, Kindled never to expire, On its course immortal sped, Is not gone, and is not dead. By a Power to thought unknown, Love shall ever seek its own. Sundered not by time or space, With no distant dwelling-place, Soul shall answer unto soul, As the needle to the pole. Leaving grief’s lament unsaid, “Gone is gone, and dead is dead.” Evermore Love’s quickening breath Calls the living soul from death; And the resurrection’s power Comes to every dying hour. When the soul, with vision clear, Learns that Heaven is always near, Never more shall it be said, “Gone is gone, and dead is dead.” THE SPIRIT TEACHER. FAR in the land of Love and Light, Where Death’s cold touch can never blight The buds most precious to the sight-- The Power Divine Hath given to my fostering care, A youthful band of spirits fair. _Thus_ are they _mine_.