And let some graceful arch be there With wreathèd mullions proud, With burnished ivy for its screen, And moss, that glows as fresh and green As thought beneath an April cloud.— Who says the widow’s heart must break, The childless mother sink?— A kinder truer voice I hear, Which e’en beside that mournful bier Whence parents’ eyes would hopeless shrink, Bids weep no more—O heart bereft, How strange, to thee, that sound! A widow o’er her only son, Feeling more bitterly alone For friends that press officious round. Yet is the voice of comfort heard, For Christ hath touched the bier— The bearers wait with wondering eye, The swelling bosom dares not sigh, But all is still, ’twixt hope and fear. E’en such an awful soothing calm We sometimes see alight On Christian mourners, while they wait In silence, by some churchyard gate, Their summons to this holy rite. And such the tones of love, which break The stillness of that hour, Quelling th’ embittered spirit’s strife— “The Resurrection and the Life Am I: believe, and die no more.” Unchanged that voice—and though not yet The dead sit up and speak, Answering its call; we gladlier rest Our darlings on earth’s quiet breast, And our hearts feel they must not break. Far better they should sleep awhile Within the Church’s shade, Nor wake, until new heaven, new earth, Meet for their new immortal birth For their abiding-place be made, Than wander back to life, and lean On our frail love once more. ’Tis sweet, as year by year we lose Friends out of sight, in faith to muse How grows in Paradise our store. Then pass, ye mourners, cheerly on, Through prayer unto the tomb, Still, as ye watch life’s falling leaf, Gathering from every loss and grief Hope of new spring and endless home. Then cheerly to your work again With hearts new-braced and set To run, untired, love’s blessèd race. As meet for those, who face to face Over the grave their Lord have met. Churching of Women. IS there, in bowers of endless spring, One known from all the seraph band By softer voice, by smile and wing More exquisitely bland! Here let him speed: to-day this hallowed air Is fragrant with a mother’s first and fondest prayer. Only let Heaven her fire impart, No richer incense breathes on earth: “A spouse with all a daughter’s heart,” Fresh from the perilous birth, To the great Father lifts her pale glad eye, Like a reviving flower when storms are hushed on high.