To the Memory of H. B. VanHoose who was drowned in Little __ River, Ark., Mar. 19, 1868

The tie is severed, brother; we meet on earth no more.

You body lies in a lowly tomb, its struggles all are o'er.

Thy spirit to its house of clay has bid a long adieu,

Hath winded its way to their realms beyond our mortal view,

To climes far up above us, where God and angels dwell,

Where bitter pangs shall nevermore the panting bosom swell.

Oh, there, wit joy ecstatic, our Mother-loved you'll meet,

A sister and two brothers dear, your coming there will greet.

This angel-group now meet thee, as I in thought behold,

To cheer the parting spirit on, whose tenement lies cold.

They seem to kiss those sad remains that in the water lie;

Thee, they embrace and upward bear the parting soul on high.

You seem to cast a parting look as if thou couldst not go

And leave, in death, that manly form, so late with life aglow.

Now mute and still, beneath the flood, and cold in Death's embrace,

Where friends perchance may never look on this familiar face.

But with a sign and anxious hope and with a sacred tear,

You leave it to God's holy will and to his watchful care,

Believing that the one who made, a vigil o'er will keep

And at this own appointed time, will wake it from its sleep.

Thus hoping, thou dost soar aloft, with that dear kindred band,

Far over Earth, seas, skies and stars, towards the Holy Land

And when across the ether fields, you reach the upper skies,

The angels bid you welcome home, in blissful paradise.

O, will the questions ask, dear Bud, and seek to learn of thee

How fares it with the friends below, the vast ethereal sea?

Which you so lately have passed through whilst we this side remain

To live through few and fleeting years, when death shall end our pain.

No more to us can you appear again in mortal form;

The body now so lifeless, cold, can never more grow warm,

But when this earthly course is run and we return to dust,

Our spirits will unite again, if we are counted just.

O, then, why grieve for those who die, since death is but the gate

Through which those pass to reach a clime where heads and hearts ne'er ache.

Where grief and pain and sorrows moan, will all be done away,

Where friends and joy and love shall live through one eternal day?

Z. V. H. April 1868