It is not death to bear The wrench that sets us free From dungeon chain,--to breathe the air Of boundless liberty. It is not death to fling Aside this sinful dust, And rise, on strong exulting wing, To live among the just. Jesus, thou Prince of life! Thy chosen cannot die; Like thee, they conquer in the strife, To reign with thee on high. --_Bethune._ RUGBY CHAPEL. NOVEMBER, 1857. Coldly, sadly descends The autumn evening. The field Strewn with its dark yellow drifts Of withered leaves, and the elms, Fade into dimness apace, Silent; hardly a shout From a few boys late at their play! The lights come out in the street, In the schoolroom windows; but cold, Solemn, unlighted, austere, Through the gathering darkness, arise The chapel-walls, in whose bound Thou, my father! art laid. There thou dost lie, in the gloom Of the autumn evening. But ah! That word _gloom_ to my mind Brings thee back in the light Of thy radiant vigor again. In the gloom of November we passed Days not dark at thy side; Seasons impaired not the ray Of thy buoyant cheerfulness clear. Such thou wast! and I stand In the autumn evening, and think Of bygone autumns with thee. Fifteen years have gone round Since thou arosest to tread, In the summer-morning, the road Of death, at a call unforeseen, Sudden. For fifteen years, We who till then in thy shade Rested as under the boughs Of a mighty oak, have endured Sunshine and rain as we might, Bare, unshaded, alone, Lacking the shelter of thee. O strong soul, by what shore Tarriest thou now? For that force, Surely, has not been left vain! Somewhere, surely, afar, In the sounding labor-house vast Of being, is practiced that strength, Zealous, beneficent, firm! Yes, in some far-shining sphere, Conscious or not of the past, Still thou performest the word Of the Spirit in whom thou dost live, Prompt, unwearied, as here. Still thou upraisest with zeal The humble good from the ground, Sternly repressest the bad; Still, like a trumpet, dost rouse Those who with half-opened eyes Tread the border-land dim 'Twixt vice and virtue reviv'st, Succorest. This was thy work, This was the life upon earth. What is the course of the life Of mortal men on the earth? Most men eddy about Here and there, eat and drink, Chatter and love and hate, Gather and squander, are raised Aloft, are hurled in the dust, Striving blindly, achieving Nothing; and then they die,-- Perish; and no one asks Who or what they have been, More than he asks what waves, In the moonlit solitudes mild Of the midmost ocean, have swelled, Foamed for a moment, and gone.