Personal Poems, Complete

TO MY FRIEND ON THE DEATH OF HIS SISTER.

Sophia Sturge, sister of Joseph Sturge, of Birmingham, the President of the British Complete Suffrage Association, died in the 6th month, 1845. She was the colleague, counsellor, and ever-ready helpmate of her brother in all his vast designs of beneficence. The Birmingham Pilot says of her: "Never, perhaps, were the active and passive virtues of the human character more harmoniously and beautifully blended than in this excellent woman."

     Thine is a grief, the depth of which another
     May never know;
     Yet, o'er the waters, O my stricken brother!
     To thee I go.

     I lean my heart unto thee, sadly folding
     Thy hand in mine;
     With even the weakness of my soul upholding
     The strength of thine.

     I never knew, like thee, the dear departed;
     I stood not by
     When, in calm trust, the pure and tranquil-hearted
     Lay down to die.

     And on thy ears my words of weak condoling
     Must vainly fall
     The funeral bell which in thy heart is tolling,
     Sounds over all!

     I will not mock thee with the poor world's common
     And heartless phrase,
     Nor wrong the memory of a sainted woman
     With idle praise.

     With silence only as their benediction,
     God's angels come
     Where, in the shadow of a great affliction,
     The soul sits dumb!

     Yet, would I say what thy own heart approveth
     Our Father's will,
     Calling to Him the dear one whom He loveth,
     Is mercy still.

     Not upon thee or thine the solemn angel
     Hath evil wrought
     Her funeral anthem is a glad evangel,—
     The good die not!

     God calls our loved ones, but we lose not wholly
     What He hath given;
     They live on earth, in thought and deed, as truly
     As in His heaven.

     And she is with thee; in thy path of trial
     She walketh yet;
     Still with the baptism of thy self-denial
     Her locks are wet.

     Up, then, my brother! Lo, the fields of harvest
     Lie white in view
     She lives and loves thee, and the God thou servest
     To both is true.

     Thrust in thy sickle! England's toilworn peasants
     Thy call abide;
     And she thou mourn'st, a pure and holy presence,
     Shall glean beside!
     1845.