And his vesture is as blue As the skies of summer are, Falling with a saintly sweep, With a sacred stillness swaying; And he presseth to his bosom Harps of strange and mystic fashion, And his hands, like living pearls, Wander o'er the golden strings. And the music that ariseth, Who can utter or divine it? In that strange celestial thrilling, Every memory of sorrow, Every heart-ache, every anguish, Every fear for the to-morrow, Melt away in charmèd rest. And there be around him many, Bright with robes like evening clouds,-- Tender green and clearest amber, Crimson fading into rose, Robes of flames and robes of silver,-- And their hues all thrill and tremble With a living light of feeling, Deepening with each heart's pulsation, Till in vivid trance of color That celestial rainbow glows. How they float and wreathe and brighten, Bending low their starry brows, Singing with a tender cadence, And their hands, like spotless lilies, Folded on their prayerful breasts. In their singing seem to mingle Tender airs of bygone days;-- Mother-hymnings by the cradle, Mother-moanings by the grave, Songs of human love and sorrow, Songs of endless love and rest;-- In the pauses of that music Every throb of sorrow dies. O my own, my heart's belovèd, Vainly have I wept above thee? Would I call thee from thy glory To this world's impurity?-- Lo! it passeth, it dissolveth, All the vision melts away; But as if a heavenly lily Dropped into my aching breast, With a healing sweetness laden, With a mystic breath of rest, I am charmed into forgetting Autumn winds and dreary grave. LINES SUGGESTED BY THE DEATH OF THE WIFE OF MOSES STUART, OF ANDOVER, MASS. How quiet, through the hazy autumn air, The elm-boughs wave with many a gold-flecked leaf! How calmly float the dreamy mantled clouds Through these still days of autumn, fair and brief! Our Andover stands thoughtful, fair, and calm, Waiting to lay her summer glories by E'er the bright flush shall kindle all her pines, And her woods blaze with autumn's heraldry. By the old mossy wall the goldenrod Waves as aforetime, and the purple sprays Of starry asters quiver to the breeze, Rustling all stilly through the forest ways. No voice of triumph from those silent skies Breaks on the calm, and speaks of glories near, Nor bright wings flutter, nor fair glistening robes Proclaim that heavenly messengers are here. Yet in our midst an angel hath come down, Troubling the waters in a peaceful home; And from that home, of life's long sickness healed, A saint hath risen, where pain no more may come.