Nay, By that which even Christ bade us to fear Hath died my dead.
Ah, me! if on a bier I could but see him lifeless stretched to-day, I 'd bathe his face with tears of joy, and lay My cheek to his in anguish which were near To ecstasy, if I could hold him dear In death as life.

Mere separations weigh As dust in balances of love.

The death That kills comes only by dishonor.

Vain To chide me! vain! And weaker to implore, O thou once loved so well, loved now no more! There is no resurrection for such slain, No miracle of God could give thee breath! * * * * * Mercy Philbrick lived thirty years after the events described in these pages.

It was a life rich to overflowing, yet uneventful, as the world reckons: a life lonely, yet full of companionship; sady yet full of cheer; hard, and yet perpetually uplifted by an inward joy which made her very presence like sunshine, and made men often say of her, "Oh, she has never known sorrow." This was largely the result of her unquenchable gift of song, of the true poet's temperament, to which life is for ever new, beautiful, and glad.