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THE OLD MAN'S FUNERAL.

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THE OLD MAN'S FUNERAL.

I SAW an aged man upon his bier,

His hair was thin and white, and on his brow

A record of the cares of many a year—

Cares that were ended and forgotten now.

And there was sadness round, and faces bowed,

And woman's tears fell fast, and children wailed aloud.

Then rose another hoary man, and said,

In faltering accents, to that weeping train,
"Why mourn ye that our aged friend is dead?
Ye are not sad to see the gathered grain :
Nor when their mellow fruit the orchards cast,

Nor when the yellow woods shake down the ripened

mast.

"Ye sigh not when the sun, his course fulfilled,—
His glorious course, rejoicing earth and sky,-
In the soft evening, when the winds are stilled,
Sinks where his islands of refreshment lie,

And leaves the smile of his departure, spread

O'er the warm-coloured heaven and ruddy mountain

head.

"Why weep ye then for him, who, having won
The bound of man's appointed years, at last,
Life's blessings all enjoyed, life's labours done,
Serenely to his final rest has passed;

While the soft memory of his virtues yet

Lingers, like twilight hues, when the bright sun is set ?

"His youth was innocent; his riper age

Marked with some act of goodness every day; And, watched by eyes that loved him, calm, and sage, Faded his late declining years away.

Cheerful he gave his being up, and went

To share the holy rest that waits a life well spent.

"That life was happy; every day he gave

Thanks for the fair existence that was his; For a sick fancy made him not her slave,

To mock him with her phantom miseries.

No chronic tortures racked his aged limb,
For luxury and sloth had nourished none for him.

"And I am glad that he has lived thus long,

And glad that he has gone to his reward; Nor can I deem that Nature did him wrong,

Softly to disengage the vital cord.

When his weak hand grew palsied, and his eye

Dark with the mists of age, it was his time to die."

BRYANT.

I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase which calls
The burial-ground God's Acre! It is just;
It consecrates each grave within its walls,
And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.

God's Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts
Comfort to those who in the grave have sown
The seed that they had garnered in their hearts,
Their bread of life-alas! no more their own.

Into its furrows shall we all be cast,

In the sure faith that we shall rise again
At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.

Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,
In the fair gardens of that second birth;
And each bright blossom mingle its perfume

With that of flowers which never bloomed on earth.

With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow;
This is the field and Acre of our God:

This is the place where human harvests grow!

LONGFELLOW.

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