?THE silver cord is loosed,? he said, ?The golden bowl is broken; A few more prayers having been prayed, A few more love-words spoken, I shall turn my face unto the wall, And sleeping, not be woken.? ?Is it a better place, my child, That thou art gone unto? Upon this earth that thou hast left Hadst thou not much to do? Would not thy joys have been a crowd And thy troubles small and few? ?Beauty and rank and friends and wealth, Genius and excellence,? Could not all these, thy heritage, Win thee from hastening hence? Was the soul so much more unto thee Than joys of mind and sense? ?And, bending with an English grace, The ladies of our isle, With their soft curls and their virgin eyes Which look so sweet the while, Had given thee for thy nobleness A precious golden smile. ?These will not now be thine: thy life's Appointed period Being past o'er, thou liest on The folded pinions broad Of the Seraph who is bearing thee Up through the sun to God. ?It has a solemn sound?`to God?; And strange high thoughts it weaves Of a garden where the Tree of Life Its mystic shadow gives, And the music of the rapid worlds Is the wind that stirs the leaves. ?Surely, it is a better place: Wealth shuts not there his ken From woes his heart yearns to assuage; Nor noble origin Wounds him by lessening trust betwixt Him and his fellow-men. ?Nor friends die from him, but instead Come to him where he is; Nor Passion, rank with evil joys And worse satieties, Pouting her crimson lips at him Layeth her cheek to his. ?Nor priests be there, like a bad dream That at your bed's foot stands All night (and yet it goes at last); Nor moans of king-curst lands Make his breast heave and his pale brow To drop into his hands. ?But Love walks always with him now; And Faith, not chained but free; And Hope, bent forward, and with hair Held back continually To hear the distant chariot-wheels; And wise calm Charity.?