LINES. LINES, ON THE DEATH OF S. o. TORREY. GONE before us, O our brother, On the wasting shrine Of a stern and lofty duty, Oh! thy gentle smile of greeting Who amidst the solemn meeting Who, when peril gathers o'er us, Early hath the spoiler found thee, Autumn's faded earth around thee, And, with future showers, In the locks thy forehead gracing, 67 Will the vigil Love is keeping Will the pleasant memories, swelling If the spirit ever gazes, Wilt thou not, O brother, meet us And, in hours of sadness, greet us Peace be with thee, O our brother, In thy place to stand. Unto Truth and Freedom giving All thy early powers, A LAMENT. "The parted spirit, Knoweth it not our sorrow? Answereth not THE circle is broken-pne seat is forsaken,— One heart from among us no longer shall thrill A LAMENT. Weep!-lonely and lowly, are slumbering now The light of her glances, the pride of her brow, Weep-sadly and long shall we listen in vain To hear the soft tones of her welcome again. 69 Give our tears to the dead! For humanity's claim From its silence and darkness is ever the same; The hope of that World whose existence is bliss May not stifle the tears of the mourners of this. For, oh! if one glance the freed spirit can throw On the scene of its troubled probation below, Than the pride of the marble-the pomp of the dead To that glance will be dearer the tears which we shed. Oh, who can forget the mild light of her smile, Over lips moved with music and feeling the whileThe eye's deep enchantment, dark, dream-like, and clear, In the glow of its gladness-the shade of its tear. And the charm of her features, while over the whole Played the hues of the heart and the sunshine of soul, And the tones of her voice, like the music which seems Murmured low in our ears by the Angel of dreams! But holier and dearer our memories hold Those treasures of feeling, more precious than gold The love and the kindness and pity which gave Fresh flowers for the bridal, green wreaths for the grave! The heart ever open to Charity's claim, Fell the scorn of the heartless, the jesting and jeer How true to our hearts was that beautiful sleeper With smiles for the joyful, with tears for the weeper! Yet, evermore prompt, whether mournful or gay, With warnings in love to the passing astray. For, though spotless herself, she could sorrow for them Who sullied with evil the spirit's pure gem; And a sigh or a tear could the erring reprove, And the sting of reproof was still tempered by love. As a cloud of the sunset, slow melting in heaven, DANIEL WHEELER. [DANIEL WHEELER, a minister of the Society of Friends, and who had labored in the cause of his Divine Master in Great Britain, Russia, and the islands of the Pacific, died in New York in the spring of 1840, while on a religious visit to this country.] Он, dearly loved! And worthy of our love!-No more DANIEL WHEELER. They bore unquestioned evidence The world, its time and sense, shut out— The brightness of Faith's holy trance Gathered upon thy countenance, As if each lingering cloud of doubt- The oak has fallen! While, meet for no good work, the vine Fallen, while thy loins were girded still, The breezes from the Frozen Sea With winter's arrowy keenness pass; Or, where the unwarning tropic gale Smote to the waves thy tattered sail, Or, where the noon-hour's fervid heat Against Tahiti's mountains beat; The same mysterious hand which gave And blessed for thee the baleful dew 71 |