--On the white pillow still reposed her head, Her cheek upon her hand. She had retired In health, affection's words, and trustful prayers Hallowing her lips. Now, on her brow there seem'd Unwonted smoothness, and the smile was there Set as a seal, with which the call she heard, "_Come! sister-spirit!_" She had gain'd the wish Oft utter'd to her God, to pass away Without the sickness and enfeebled powers That tax the heart of love. Death that unbars Unto the ready soul the Gate of Heaven, Claiming no pang or groan from failing flesh, Doth angel-service. But alas! the shock, The chill, the change, the anguish, where she dwelt, And must return no more. As one amaz'd The stricken daughter held her breath for awe, God seem'd so near. Methought she saw the Hand That smote her. Half herself was reft away, Body and soul. Yet no repining word Announc'd her agony. The tolling bell To hill and valley, told with solemn tongue That death had been among them, and at door And window listening, aged crone and child Counted its strokes, a stroke for every year, And predicated thence, as best they might, Whom they had lost. Neighbor of neighbor ask'd, Till the sad tidings were possess'd by all. --A village funeral is a thing that warns All from their homes. In the throng'd city's bound, Hearses unnoticed pass, and none inquire Who goeth to his grave. But rural life Keepeth afresh the rills of sympathy. True sorrow was there at these obsequies, For all the poor were mourners. There the old Came in the garments she had given, bow'd down With their own sense of loss. O'er furrow'd cheeks In care-worn channels stole the trickling tear. The young were weepers, for their memories stored Many a gentle word, and precept kind, Like jewels dropp'd behind her. Mothers rais'd Their little ones above the coffin's side To look upon her face. Lingering they gazed Deeming the lovely Lady sweetly slept Among the flowers that on her pillow lay. * * * * * He's but a tyro in the school of grief Who hath not from the victor-tomb return'd Unto his rifled home. The utter weight Of whelming desolation doth not fall Till the last rites are paid. The cares of love Having no longer scope, withdraw their shield, And even the seat whereon the lost one sate, The pen he held, the cup from which he drank, Launch their keen darts against the festering soul. --The lonely daughter, never since her birth Divided from the mother, having known No separate pleasure, or secreted thought, With deep humility resumed her course Of daily duty and philanthropy, Not murmuring, but remembering His great love Who lent so long that blessing beyond price, And from her broken censer offering still Incense of praise. She deem'd it fearful loss To lose a sorrow, be chastis'd in vain, Not yield our joys, but have them rent away, And make this life a battle-field with God.