Reverend Thomas Quinton Stow

For ever from the care and pain of life,
He whom we all have known and loved has
pass'd ;
Gone is its sorrow, gone its weary strife,
And one more soull has found a home at last.
Not dead, he sleeps ;
And God Himself His resting servant keeps.

Through all the watches of the lonely night
The faint breath lingered, till with one last sigh
His pure soul vanished in eternal light,
As the stars faded in the morning sky.
Night's shadows fled.
Morn came — they sadly whispered : " He is dead.'*

But the stars shine, although the glare of day
Has hid them from our feebly-straining eyes,
So he still lives whose light has pass'd away.
And shall for ever, though creation dies.
The breath of God
Can never mingle with the church-yard sod.

But not for us he lives, whose strength was spent
Unselfishly for others' good. Ah, no !
No more to us his precious life is lent :
A voice has called, he could not choose, but go
From toil, to rest
For ever on his Saviour's tender breast.

The church-bell rings ; the congregations meet
Where years ago they met with him for prayer ;
The same hands clasp, the same kind voices greet.
But he no more is heard or met with there.
They speak of him,
And every heart grows sad and eye grows dim.

Why speak in pitying accents ? He who stood
Weary and worn among us, now is blest.
Death comes with gentle aspect to the good ;
His cold touch softly stills them into rest.
Eternal peace
For mind and body greets the soul's release.

Look up, the sky is shining bright and fair,
With but a dim cloud, like the hallow'd breath
Of angels breathed upon the clear cold air —
We long to search its depths ; yet this is death.
To pierce the sky
And rise beyond its mysteries, is to die.⁴