To My Friend OnThe Death Of His Sister

Thine is a grief, the depth of which another     May never know;     Yet, o'er the waters, O my stricken brother!     To thee I go.     I lean my heart unto thee, sadly folding     Thy hand in mine;     With even the weakness of my soul upholding     The strength of thine.     I never knew, like thee, the dear departed;     I stood not by     When, in calm trust, the pure and tranquil-hearted     Lay down to die.     And on thy ears my words of weak condoling     Must vainly fall     The funeral bell which in thy heart is tolling,     Sounds over all!     I will not mock thee with the poor world's common     And heartless phrase,     Nor wrong the memory of a sainted woman     With idle praise.     With silence only as their benediction,     God's angels come     Where, in the shadow of a great affliction,     The soul sits dumb!     Yet, would I say what thy own heart approveth     Our Father's will,     Calling to Him the dear one whom He loveth,     Is mercy still.     Not upon thee or thine the solemn angel     Hath evil wrought     Her funeral anthem is a glad evangel,     The good die not!     God calls our loved ones, but we lose not wholly     What He hath given;     They live on earth, in thought and deed, as truly     As in His heaven.     And she is with thee; in thy path of trial     She walketh yet;     Still with the baptism of thy self-denial     Her locks are wet.     Up, then, my brother! Lo, the fields of harvest     Lie white in view     She lives and loves thee, and the God thou servest     To both is true.     Thrust in thy sickle! England's toilworn peasants     Thy call abide;     And she thou mourn'st, a pure and holy presence,     Shall glean beside!