Even as I write, before me seem to rise, Like stars in darkness, well remembered eyes Whose light but lately shone on earth's en deavour, Now vanished from this troubled world for ever. Oh! missed and mourned by many,-I being one, HERBERT, not vainly thy career was run; Nor shall Death's shadow, and the folding shroud, Veil from the future years thy worth allowed. Since all thy life thy single hope and aim "Tis fit that by the good remaining yet, So full of limpid earnestness and truth; L The body, not the spirit's strength, gave way; Eyes that I last saw lifting their farewell To the now darkened windows where I dwell,- My threshold stone-but friends bewail thy loss, Fair eyes,—your light was quenched while men still thought To see those tasks to full perfection brought! But GooD is not a shapeless mass of stone, Hewn by man's hands and worked by him alone; It is a seed God suffers One to sow, Many to reap; and when the harvests grow, GOD giveth increase through all coming years, And lets us reap in joy, seed that was sown in tears. Brave heart! true soldier's son; set at thy post, Deserting not till life itself was lost; Thou faithful sentinel for others' weal, Clad in a surer panoply than steel, A resolute purpose,-sleep, as heroes sleep, Slain, but not conquered! We thy loss must weep, And while our sight the mist of sorrow dims, Feel all these comforting words die down like hymns Hushed after service in cathedral walls ; But proudly on thy name thy country calls, By thee raised higher than the highest place Yet won by any of thy ancient race. Be thy sons like thee! Sadly as I bend Above the page, I write thy name, lost friend! With a friend's name this brief book did begin, And a friend's name shall end it: names that win Happy remembrance from the great and good; Names that shall sink not in oblivion's flood, Bit with clear music, like a church-bell's chime, Sound through the river's sweep of onward rushing Time! NOTES. NOTE 1, page 135, line 11. "Like her whose Shadow made the soldier's light." ERY sure I am that the great American poet, LONGFELLOW, would not refuse me permission to append here, in lieu of any note of explanation, his own beautiful lines on Miss Nightingale, alluding to the anecdote of a dying soldier pressing his lips to her shadow on the wall. SANTA FILOMENA. From the Atlantic Monthly. Whene'er a noble deed is wrought, |