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HOPE FOR THE SORROWING.

[A poem delivered at the funeral service of Mr. Henry L. Kingman, of North Bridgewater, Mass., November, 18€2.]

YE holy ministers of Love,

Blest dwellers in the upper spheres,
In vain we fix our gaze above,

For we are blinded by our tears.

O, tell us to what land unknown
The soul of him we love has flown?

He left us when his manly heart
With earnest hope was beating high;

Too soon it seemed for us to part;

Too soon, alas! for him to die.

We have the tenement of clay,
But aye the soul has passed away.

Away, into the unknown dark,

With fearless heart and steady hand,

He calmly launched his fragile bark,
To seek the spirits' Father Land.
Say, has he reached some distant shore,
To speak with us on earth no more?

We gaze into unmeasured space,
And lift our tearful eyes above,
To catch the gleaming of his face,

Or one light whisper of his love.
O God! O Angels! hear our cry,
Nor let our faith in darkness die!

Hark! for a voice of gentle tone
The answer to our cry hath given,
Soft as Eolian harpstrings blown,
Responsive to the breath of even
"I have not sought a distant shore;
Lo! I am with you weep no more.

"Ay! Love is stronger far than death, And wins the victory o'er the Grave; Dependent on no mortal breath,

Its mission is to guide and save. Above the wrecks of Death and Time, It triumphs, changeless and sublime.

Still shall my love its vigils keep,
True as the needle to the pole,
For Death is not a dreamless sleep,

Nor is the Grave man's final goal. The larger growth, — the life divine, All that I hoped or wished, are mine."

Blest spirit! we will weep no more,
But lay our selfishness to rest;
The Providence, which we adore,

Has ordered all things for the best. Life's battle fought, the victory won, To nobler toils pass on! pass on!

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OUT in the desolate midnight,

Out in the cold and rain,

With the bitter, bleak winds of winter
Driving across the plain-

In the ghastly gloom of the churchyard,
Crouching behind a stone,

Fleeing from what is called Justice,

I was safe with the dead alone.

All of the madness and evil

That into my nature was cast;

All of the demon or devil

Had filled up its measure at last.

Blood, on my hands, of a brother!

Blood an indelible stain!

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Burning, and smarting, and eating

Into my heart and my brain.

In woe and iniquity shapen,
Conceived by my mother in sin,
Forecast in a soil of pollution,

Did the life of my being begin.
I chose not the nature within me;
I was fated and fashioned by birth;
Foreordained to the darkness and evil,
The sins and the sorrows of earth!

The World was my foe ere it knew me;
It scattered its snares in my path:

Like a serpent, it charmed and it drew me,
Then met me with judgment and wrath!
I saw that the strong crushed the weaker,
That wickedness won in the strife,

And the greatest of crimes and of curses
Was the lot of a beggar in life!

E'en the arm of God's mercy seemed shortene‹',
For all that could gladden or save;

The child of my love, and its mother,
Were laid in the pitiless grave!

Then, weakened and wasted by hunger-
Ay, farrished without and within

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