The loss of life, but not the gain of death.
But hast thou by thy ceaseless prayers obtain'd
Such token of acceptance with thy Lord,
So fill'd each post of duty, so sustain'd
All needful discipline, so deeply mourn'd
Each burden of iniquity, that Death
Comes as a favor'd messenger to lead
To its bright heritage, the willing soul?
—Searcher of hearts, thou knowest! Thou alone
The hidden thought dost read, the daily act
Note unforgetful. Take away the dross
Of earthly principle, the gather'd film
Of self-deluding hope, the love and hate
Which have their root in dust, until the soul
Regarding life and death with equal eye
Absorbs its will in thine.
THE REV. LEGH RICHMOND, AMONG THE RUINS OF IONA.
Where old Iona's ruins spread
In shapeless fragments round,
And where the crown'd and mighty dead
Repose in cells profound,
Where o'er Columba's buried towers
The shrouding ivy steals,
And moans the owl from cloister'd bowers
A holy Teacher kneels.
