DEATH OF A FORMER PUPIL.
I saw her toiling for the unclad poor
With tireless zeal, and bending o'er the sick
Through the long watches of the winter night.
Why laid she thus their burdens to her heart
Forgetful of youth's pleasures? Did some voice
Prophetic warn her of that hasting clime
Where are no sick to comfort, and no poor
To need a garment? Felt she that her step
Was near that threshhold where the weary rest?
—We may not say what light was in her soul,—
For that Blest Book which speaks the Eternal Mind
Was her close counsellor, and night and day
She woo'd its wisdom with a childlike love,
'Till the wild gladness of her nature took
A deeper and a holier tint, like one
Who girds his Sabbath-mantle meekly on,
To tread God's courts.
Come! 'tis a holy hour,
For Easter-morn is purpling the far hills,
And She, our Church, a weeping pilgrim long,
Fast by the footsteps of her suffering Lord,
Up to his cross, and downward to his tomb,
Doth hail his rising. Lo! her feast is spread,
And her anointed herald hath announc'd
In "Christ's behalf," the invitation blest—
Come, thou art bidden, daughter. 'Twas thy prayer
To lift thy young heart's banner up this day,
Before his altar, and to join the host
Who follow him to death. Behold, they kneel
With meek obedience to their Master's voice,
