If yon bright stars which gem the night Be each a blissful dwelling-sphere Where kindred spirits reunite Whom death hath torn asunder here,-- How sweet it were at once to die, To leave this blighted orb afar! Mixt soul and soul to cleave the sky, And soar away from star to star. But oh, how dark, how drear, how lone, Would seem the brightest world of bliss, If, wandering through each radiant one, We failed to meet the loved of this! If there no more the ties shall twine Which death's cold hand alone could sever, Ah, would those stars in mockery shine, More joyless, as they shine forever! It cannot be,--each hope, each fear That lights the eye or clouds the brow, Proclaims there is a happier sphere Than this bleak world that holds us now. There, Lord, thy wayworn saints shall find The bliss for which they longed before; And holiest sympathies shall bind Thine own to thee forevermore. O Jesus, bring us to that rest, Where all the ransomed shall be found, In thine eternal fulness blest, While ages roll their cycles round. WILLIAM LEGGETT. * * * * * MY DAYS AMONG THE DEAD. My days among the dead are passed; Around me I behold, Where'er these casual eyes are cast, The mighty minds of old; My never-failing friends are they, With whom I converse day by day. With them I take delight in weal, And seek relief in woe; And while I understand and feel How much to them I owe, My cheeks have often been bedewed With tears of thoughtful gratitude. My thoughts are with the dead; with them I live in long-past years; Their virtues love, their faults condemn, Partake their hopes and fears, And from their lessons seek and find Instruction with an humble mind. My hopes are with the dead; anon My place with them will be. And I with them shall travel on Through all futurity: Yet leaving here a name, I trust, That will not perish in the dust. ROBERT SOUTHEY. * * * * * THE FUTURE LIFE. How shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps The disembodied spirits of the dead, When all of thee that time could wither sleeps And perishes among the dust we tread? For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless pain If there I meet thy gentle presence not; Nor hear the voice I love, nor read again In thy serenest eyes the tender thought. Will not thy own meek heart demand me there? That heart whose fondest throbs to me were given; My name on earth was ever in thy prayer, And wilt thou never utter it in heaven? In meadows fanned by heaven's life-breathing wind, In the resplendence of that glorious sphere, And larger movements of the unfettered mind, Wilt thou forget the love that joined us here?