Who is at hand that loves the Lord? Make haste, and take her home, and bring Thine household choir, in true accord Their soothing hymns for her to sing. Soft on her fluttering heart shall breathe The fragrance of that genial isle, There she may weave her funeral wreath, And to her own sad music smile. The Spirit of the dying Son Is there, and fills the holy place With records sweet of duties done, Of pardoned foes, and cherished grace. And as of old by two and two His herald saints the Saviour sent To soften hearts like morning dew, Where he to shine in mercy meant; So evermore He deems His name Best honoured and his way prepared, When watching by his altar-flame He sees His servants duly paired. He loves when age and youth are met, Fervent old age and youth serene, Their high and low in concord set For sacred song, Joy’s golden mean. He loves when some clear soaring mind Is drawn by mutual piety To simple souls and unrefined, Who in life’s shadiest covert lie. Or if perchance a saddened heart That once was gay and felt the spring, Cons slowly o’er its altered part, In sorrow and remorse to sing, Thy gracious care will send that way Some spirit full of glee, yet taught To bear the sight of dull decay, And nurse it with all-pitying thought; Cheerful as soaring lark, and mild As evening blackbird’s full-toned lay, When the relenting sun has smiled Bright through a whole December day. These are the tones to brace and cheer The lonely watcher of the fold, When nights are dark, and foeman near, When visions fade and hearts grow cold. How timely then a comrade’s song Comes floating on the mountain air, And bids thee yet be bold and strong— Fancy may die, but Faith is there. All Saints’ Day. Hurt not the earth, neither the sea, nor the trees, till we have sealed the servants of our God in their foreheads. _Revelation_ vii. 3. WHY blow’st thou not, thou wintry wind, Now every leaf is brown and sere, And idly droops, to thee resigned, The fading chaplet of the year? Yet wears the pure aërial sky Her summer veil, half drawn on high, Of silvery haze, and dark and still The shadows sleep on every slanting hill. How quiet shows the woodland scene! Each flower and tree, its duty done, Reposing in decay serene, Like weary men when age is won, Such calm old age as conscience pure And self-commanding hearts ensure, Waiting their summons to the sky, Content to live, but not afraid to die.