John Walsh

A strange life--strangely passed! We may not read the soul When God has folded up the scroll In death at last. We may not--dare not say of one Whose task of life as well was done As he could do it,--'This is lost, And prayers may never pay the cost.' Who listens to the song That sings within the breast, Should ever hear the good expressed Above the wrong. And he who leans an eager ear To catch the discord, he will hear The echoes of his own weak heart Beat out the most discordant part. Whose tender heart could build Affection's bower above A heart where baby nests of love Were ever filled,-- With upward growth may reach and twine About the children, grown divine, That once were his a time so brief His very joy was more than grief. O Sorrow--'Peace, be still!' God reads the riddle right; And we who grope in constant night But serve His will; And when sometime the doubt is gone, And darkness blossoms into dawn,-- 'God keeps the good,' we then will say: ' 'Tis but the dross He throws away.'