"O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?" 1 Cor. xv. 55. "There is another invisible, eternal existence, superior to this visible one, which does not perish when all things perish."-- Bhagavad Gîtâ. "Go, give to the waters and the plants thy body, which belongs to them, but there is an immortal portion--transport it to the world of the Holy."-- Rig Veda. SHINING so gloriously, What dost thou here? Only last evensong Spread we thy bier, Lit the tall tapers white, Ghastly and drear. Two stood at side and foot, Two at thy head; Over thee, full and wide, Black the pall spread; Slow tolled the mellow bell, For--thou wert dead. Lilies lay on thy breast, I placed them there; None, priest or kin or earl, Guessed my despair As I wreathed bud and bloom In thy dark hair. Have thy white feet, O Love, Spotless which trod Over the mire and clay Of the earth's sod, No brighter paths to tread Nearer to God? Thus cried my soul last night, Fearful and loud. Glanced out the silver moon From a swift cloud, Laid all her light on thee Dumb in thy shroud. Never came smile or frown Over thy face; No whisper answered me In that still place; White shone the tapers tall On thy dead grace. On thy fringed pall I lay, Prone by thy bier, While the night-watches passed Fearful and drear. Oh! could mere icy dust Still be so dear? But when the dawn arose, Golden and grey, Bier, pall and tapers high Vanished away; Nor looked my anguished eyes On thy dead clay. Shining so gloriously, I saw thee stand With our dead children three Clasped by the hand; And round thy brows were set Stars in a band. Cried then my soul of souls: "Answer, O clay! Shall those fond eyes of thine Slumber alway? That brow in noisome dust Vanished away? "Those tender hands of thine, Gracious and kind, Turned into clay and ash, Drift on the wind? Sealed ever thy pure lips, And thine eyes blind? "Shall that sweet heart of thine, Noble and true, Moulder to feed the sap Of the weird yew? Or the small graveside bud Wet with death's dew? "Answer my groaning soul, O thou dear clay! Shall that brave soul of thine Tremble away Into dark nothingness? Answer, and say "Shall all the gracious deeds Hands, heart and soul Nobly have joined to work Win thee no dole? Hast thy fair, beauteous life Won its last goal?"