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                                          Thy toil had been
In that brief interval, to bear fresh plants
From the sweet garden which she loved to tend,
And bid them on her burial-pillow bloom.
But ere the young rose, or the willow-tree
Had taken their simplest rooting, thou wert laid
Low by her side. It was a pleasant place
Methought to rest,—earth’s weary labor done,
Fanned by the waving of those drooping boughs,
And in her company, whom thou didst choose
From all the world, to travel by thy side,
Confidingly,—by deep affection cheer'd,
And in thy faith a sharer.
                                         From the haunts
Of living men thine image may not fleet
Noteless away. They will remember thee,
By many a word of witness for the truth,
And many a deed of bounty. In the sphere
Of those sublimer charities that gird
The mind—the soul—thine was the ready hand:
And for the hasting of that day of peace
Which sheathes the sword, thine was the earnest prayer.
In thine own house and in the church of God
There will be weeping for thee. Thou no more
Around thine altar, shalt delight to see
Thy children, and thy children's children come
To take thy patriarch blessing,—and no more
Bring duly to yon consecrated courts
Thy Sabbath offering. Thou hast gained the rest
Which earthly Sabbaths dimly shadow forth,
And to that ransomed family art risen,
Which have no need of prayer.