We could not weep upon the day
When her pure spirit passed away;
We thought we read the mystery
Which in her life there seemed to be--
That she was not our own, but lent
To us little while, and sent
An angel child, what others preach
Of heavenly purity, to teach,
In ways more eloquent than speech--
And chiefly by that raptured eye
Which seemed to look beyond the sky,
And that abstraction, listening
To hear the choir of seraphs sing.
We thought that death did seem to her
Of long-lost joy the harbinger--
Like an old household servant, come
To take the willing scholar home;
The school-house, it was very dear,
But then the holidays were near;
And why should she be lingering here?
Softly the servant bore the child
Who at her parting turned and smiled,
And looked back to us, till the night
For ever hid her from our sight.
LIFE A TREADMILL.
WHO says that life is a treadmill?
You, merchant, when, after a weary day of measuring cotton-cloth or
numbering flower barrels, bowing to customers or taking account of
stock, you stumble homeward, thinking to yourself that the moon is a
tolerable substitute for gas light, to prevent people from running
against the posts--and then, by chance, recall the time when, a
school-boy, you read about "chaste Dian" in your Latin books, and
discovered a striking resemblance to moonbeams in certain blue eyes
that beamed upon you from the opposite side of the school-room.
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