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, For we are blinded by our tears. O, tell us to what land unknown He left us when his manly heart Too soon it seemed for us to part; Too soon, alas! for him to die. We have the tenement of clay, Away, into the unknown dark, With fearless heart and steady hand, He calmly launched his fragile bark, We gaze into unmeasured space, Or one light whisper of his love. Hark! for a voice of gentle tone "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, 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, Has ordered all things for the best. Life's battle fought, the victory won, To nobler toils pass on! pass on! OUT in the desolate midnight, Out in the cold and rain, With the bitter, bleak winds of winter In the ghastly gloom of the churchyard, 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! Burning, and smarting, and eating Into my heart and my brain. In woe and iniquity shapen, Did the life of my being begin. The World was my foe ere it knew me; Like a serpent, it charmed and it drew me, And the greatest of crimes and of curses E'en the arm of God's mercy seemed shortene‹', The child of my love, and its mother, Then, weakened and wasted by hunger- |