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,
Is borne by time away;

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,"
With unmix'd care or glee?

For Hope still paints the future gay,
And Memory o'er the past will stray,
With sorrowing constancy.

Yet blest if they but there behold
The grave of well-spent days;

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,
To mar its history written here,
When publish'd in the skies!

'Tis New Year's Day! How oft have I,
While yet a simple child,

Made it the goal from whence to try,
That race to run, which to the sky

Can guide through Time's dark wild!

The sky, that home of quiet rest,
When life's poor dream is o'er,
Where spirits mingle with the blest,
And sorrow in the aching breast
Shall reign, to vex no more!

113

E. DICKINSON.

The Crucifixion.

CITY of God! Jerusalem,

Why rushes out thy living stream?
The turban'd priest, the hoary seer,
The Roman in his pride, are there!
And thousands, tens of thousands, still
Cluster round Calvary's wild hill.

Still onward rolls the living tide,

There rush the bridegroom and the bride ;
Prince, beggar, soldier, Pharisee;

The old, the young, the bond, the free;
The nation's furious multitude,

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,
Palace of holiness and power,
The temple on Moriah's brow
Looks a new-risen sun below.

But woe to hill, and woe to vale!
Against them shall come forth a wail:
And woe to bridegroom and to bride!
For death shall on the whirlwind ride :
And woe to thee, resplendent shrine,
The sword is out for thee and thine.

115

THE CRUCIFIXION.

Hide, hide thee in the heavens, thou sun,
Before the deed of blood is done!
Upon the temple's haughty steep
Jerusalem's last angels weep;
They see destruction's funeral pall
Black'ning o'er Sion's sacred wall.

Like tempests gathering on the shore,
They hear the coming army's roar:
They see in Sion's halls of state
The sign that maketh desolate;
The idol standard, pagan spur,
The tomb, the flame, the massacre.

They see the vengeance fall! the chain,
The long, long age of guilt and pain:
The exile's thousand desperate years,
The more than groans, the more than tears;
Jerusalem, a vanish'd name-

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?