Poems (Trask)/At Rest

by Clara Augusta Jones Trask

AT REST.

IN MEMORY OF AGNES, AGED TWENTY-TWO.

Gather white lilies, emblems of her life,
 Spotless and pure, and lay them on her brow;
She has passed upward from this restless strife,
 And with the angels lifts her rare voice now!
Before her semblance left in mortal clay,
 Oh, solemn gazer! in mute reverence bow.

Silent and pale she lies, with folded hands;
 Touched is her forehead with celestial calm;
Smiling her lips, as if the heavenly lands
 Burst on her vision with their airs of balm,—
Or as she heard, through boundless arches, swell,
 The diapason of some grand sweet psalm.

Utter no vain repinings o'er her clay;
 Drop on her face no useless meed of tears;
Lay her within the conquered grave away,
 And cast out all your troubles, doubts, and fears.
Why weep for one who, in the courts of heaven,
 Shall dwell through all eternity's bright years?

Call her not dead, but say an angel's kiss
 Has pressed her lips with tenderness and love,—
Won her pure spirit to the home of bliss,
 Where with the saved her happy feet shall rove!
What better fate than to be with her God,
 And with his angels in the realms above?

Ay, turn away! She is no more of earth;
 But her example, deathless as the stars,
Has fallen on you at her glad new birth,
 Fallen adown through the sky's purple bars.
Accept the trust, and be not sad for her
 Whose palm-crowned forehead not a shadow mars.