25 DECEMBER 1886, Page 14

POETRY.

Bathe the lone pillow of the mourner's bed, Who holds no hope of an immortal morrow With his beloved dead ; If he but pray for faith—the fervent prayer Shall like a vapour mount the inviolate blue, To fall transfigured back on his despair

In drops of blessed dew,

Nor fail him ever, but a cloud unceasing Of incense from his soul's hushed altar start, And still return to rise with rich increasing,

A fountain from his heart,—

Pure fount of peace that freshly overflowing Through other lives with radiant love runs on, Till they too reap in joy who wept in sowing, Long after he is gone.