Then the music floated upward, Where the light of parting day, With its gold and crimson glory, On the mountain summits lay; And it left me longing, praying, And with quickened steps essaying Swift the nearest hights to gain, That my captivated being Might unto a clearer seeing Of those fading forms attain. And ere long, with hands uplifted, Kneeling on the mountain high, Out into the listening silence Did I send my pleading cry:-- “O thou beauteous land of Beulah, Just beyond my longing sight! O ye bright ones, loved and lovely, Dwelling in celestial light! Leave, O! leave me not behind you With the darkness and the night!” In the sunshine and the shadow, Then I saw an open door; And a voice cried, “Come up hither! Life is yours forevermore.” Gales of Araby around me Seemed to wave their fragrant wings; Strains of music, low and tender, Thrilled along celestial strings. Like a spotless lily, blending Matchless bloom and breath divine, Did my lost one, long lamented, Lay her soft white hand in mine; And uplifted, Strangely gifted, With a power unknown before, Did my love and I together Enter at the open door. * * * * * Lo! again those bright immortals, As their fadeless flowers they wreathe, Words of greeting oft repeating, Celebrate this festive eve. Listen to their tuneful message For the hearts that joy or grieve:-- SONG OF THE MINISTERING SPIRITS. “Truth’s heralds bright, With feet of light, Upon Life’s mountains stand, Sent to proclaim, In God’s high name, Glad tidings to the land. With smiles of love They wait above, And, ‘Come up hither!’ cry. When souls shall climb Life’s hights sublime, Then Death itself shall die. “The little child, Whose bright eyes smiled, Whom angel-hands upbore, The good, the kind, The pure in mind, Glide through Life’s open door. With voices sweet, Their lips repeat The chorus of the sky:-- ‘All souls shall be From doubt made free, And Death itself shall die.’ “Joy crowns with flowers Life’s summer-hours, When storms of sorrow cease; And wintry snows, And calm repose, Bring thoughts of holy peace. Thus pales or burns Life’s star by turns, As swift the moments fly; But winter’s blight, And sorrow’s night, And Death itself, shall die.