Thou art gone to the grave-we no longer behold thee, Nor tread the rough path of the world by thy side; But the wide arms of mercy are spread to enfold thee, And sinners may hope, since the sinless has died! Thou art gone to the grave—and its mansion forsaking, Perhaps thy weak spirit in fear linger'd long; But the mild ray of Paradise beam'd on its waking, And the song which thou heard'st was the seraphim’s song! Thou art gone to the grave-but 'twere wrong to deplore thee, Не When God was thy ransom, thy guardian, thy guide; gave thee and took thee, and soon will restore thee, Where death hath no sting, since the Saviour hath died. H HEBER. On the New Year. ANOTHER year! another year, Nor pauses yet his swift career, Nor tires his wings, nor makes he here E'en one short hour's delay. But hurries on; and round, and round, The wheel of life is sped; Unnoted of, until rebound Upon the ear, the startling sound, Who ever said, "Tis New Year's Day," For Hope still paints the future gay, Yet blest if they but there behold The joy of gratitude that told The tear, in patient trust that roll'dThe Christian's hallow'd bays. ON THE NEW YEAR. Another year! so swift it flew, We scarce had mark'd it ours; Ere, fading from our backward view, 'Tis but the past our eyes pursue; Eternity's long hours! "Tis New Year's Day! the coming year All blank before us lies; O may no blot or stain appear, 'Tis New Year's Day! How oft have I, Made it the goal from whence to try, Can guide through Time's dark wild! The sky, that home of quiet rest, 113 E. DICKINSON. The Crucifixion. CITY of God! Jerusalem, Why rushes out thy living stream? Still onward rolls the living tide, There rush the bridegroom and the bride ; The old, the young, the bond, the free; All maddening with the cry of blood. "Tis glorious morn; from height to height Shoot the keen arrows of the light; And glorious, in their central shower, But woe to hill, and woe to vale! 115 THE CRUCIFIXION. Hide, hide thee in the heavens, thou sun, Like tempests gathering on the shore, They see the vengeance fall! the chain, Its tribes earth's warning, scoff, and shame. Still pours along the multitude, Still rends the heavens the shout of blood: But in the murderers' furious van. Who totters on? A weary man; A cross upon his shoulder bound; His brow, his frame, one gushing wound. And now he treads on Calvary. What slave upon that hill must die? |