New Hampshire Statesman And Concord Register

[The following appropriate and beautiful lines were sent to a Sister, on the recent death of a beloved Brother.]

H. Neele to his Mother, on the death of his Brother.

Oh weep not for him—'tis unkindness to weep,
The weary weak frame hath but fallen asleep—
No more of fatigue, or endurance, it knows—
Oh weep not! oh break not, the gentle repose—
It sleeps—oh! how sweetly, on Jesus' kind breast;
Never more sickly dreaming shall trouble his rest,
And her lips, that would healing and comfort restore,
Shall burn his cold lips, and cold cheeks, never more.

Weep not that so soon he has gone to be blest;
He gave to his God the first hours and the best.
Can the labourer rest from his labour too soon?
He wrought all the morning and rested at noon—
Short, short, was the circuit his sun journey'd thro',
But the air was unruffled—the heaven was blue—
And the clouds, the thick clouds, which hung round him at night,
Only caught, and more richly reflected, his light

We gather the flower when full in its bloom—
While brightest in color and best in perfume—
And the victim was given to God in old time,
Without spot, without blemish, a male in his prime.

Then weep not—ah me! as I say it—I weep—
The wound is too cutting—the sorrow too deep—
Weep on—it is nature will have it—weep on—
We speak of his graces—those graces are gone!

Dear brother I turn to each birth-day of thine;
What sorrowful changes have marked thy decline.
The leaves blow sad music—the yellow leaves fall.
And winter comes gloomily wrapt in a pall—
Yet murmur not,—murmur not—his the decree,
Who is better, far better, than ten sons to thee.

Though writhing, and smarting, still welcome the rod—
Though in doubt, and in darkness, still lean on thy GOD.