WHEN the hours of Day are numbered

    And the voices of the Night

    Wake the better soul that slumbered

    To a holy calm delight；

    Ere the evening lamps are lighted

    And like phantoms grim and tall

    Shadows from the fitful firelight

    Dance upon the parlor wall；

    Then the forms of the departed

    Enter at the open door；

    The beloved the true-hearted

    Come to visit me once more；

    He the young and strong who cherished

    Noble longings for the strife

    By the roadside fell and perished

    Weary with the march of life！

    They the holy ones and weakly

    Who the cross of suffering bore

    Folded their pale hands so meekly

    Spake with us on earth no more！

    And with them the Being Beauteous

    Who unto my youth was given

    More than all things else to love me

    And is now a saint in heaven.

    With a slow and noiseless footstep

    Comes that messenger divine

    Takes the vacant chair beside me

    Lays her gentle hand in mine.

    And she sits and gazes at me

    With those deep and tender eyes

    Like the stars so still and saint-like

    Looking downward from the skies.

    Uttered not yet comprehended

    Is the spirit's voiceless prayer

    Soft rebukes in blessings ended

    Breathing from her lips of air.

    Oh though oft depressed and lonely

    All my fears are laid aside

    If I but remember only

    Such as these have lived and died！