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Babes were His Heralds, and His
Friends the Poor.

To conquer and to save, the Son of God
Came to His own in great humility,

Who wont to ride on cherub-wings abroad,
And round Him wrap the mantle of the sky.
The mountains bent their necks to form His road;
The clouds dropt down their fatness from on high;
Beneath His feet the wild waves softly flowed,
And the wind kissed His garment tremblingly.
The grave unbolted half his grisly door,

(For darkness and the deep had heard His fame,
Nor longer might their ancient rule endure ;)
The mightiest of mankind stood hush'd and tame:
And, trooping on strong wing, His angels came
To work His will, and kingdom to secure :
No strength He needed save His Father's name;
Babes were His heralds, and His friends the poor.
BISHOP HEBER.

Bereavement.

MARK'D when vernal meads were bright,

And many a primrose smil'd,

I mark'd her, blithe as morning light,
A dimpled three years' child.

A basket on one tender arm

Contain❜d her precious store

Of spring-flowers in their freshest charm,
Told proudly o'er and o'er.

The other wound with earnest hold
About her blooming guide,

A maid who scarce twelve years had told:
So walk'd they side by side.

One a bright bud, and one might seem
A sister flower half blown.

Full joyous on their loving dream
The sky of April shone.

The summer months swept by: again
That loving pair I met.
On russet heath, and bowery lane,
Th' autumnal sun had set:

And chill and damp that Sunday eve
Breath'd on the mourners' road
That bright-eyed little one to leave
Safe in the saints' abode.

Behind, the guardian sister came,

Her bright brow dim and pale-
O cheer thee, maiden! in His Name,
Who still'd Jairus' wail!

Thou mourn'st to miss the fingers soft
That held by thine so fast,
The fond appealing eye, full oft
Tow'rd thee for refuge cast.

Sweet toils, sweet cares, for ever gone!
No more from stranger's face

Or startling sound, the timid one
Shall hide in thine embrace.

E

Thy first glad earthly task is o'er,
And dreary seems thy way;

But what if nearer than before

She watch thee even to-day?

What if henceforth by Heaven's decree
She leave thee not alone,
But in her turn prove guide to thee
In ways to Angels known?

O yield thee to her whisperings sweet:
Away with thoughts of gloom!
In love the loving spirits greet,
Who wait to bless her tomb.

In loving hope with her unseen
Walk as in hallow'd air,

When foes are strong and trials keen,
Think "What if she be there ?"

ANON.

Brother, thou art gone before us.

BROTHER, thou art gone before us,

And thy saintly soul is flown Where tears are wiped from every eye And sorrow is unknown:

From the burthen of the flesh,

And from care and fear released,

Where the wicked cease from troubling,

And the weary are at rest.

The toilsome way thou'st travelled o'er,
And borne the heavy load,

But Christ hath taught thy languid feet
To reach his blest abode.
Thou'rt sleeping now, like Lazarus
Upon his father's breast,

Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.

Sin can never taint thee now,
Nor doubt thy faith assail,
Nor thy meek trust in Jesus Christ
And the Holy Spirit fail.

And there thou'rt sure to meet the good,
Whom on earth thou lovedst best,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.

"Earth to earth," and "Dust to dust,"
The solemn priest hath said,
So we lay the turf above thee now,
And we seal thy narrow bed:
But thy spirit, brother, soars away
Among the faithful blest,

Where the wicked cease from troubling,

And the weary are at rest.

And when the Lord shall summon us,

Whom thou hast left behind,

May we, untainted by the world,
As sure a welcome find;

May each, like thee, depart in peace,

To be a glorious guest,

Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.

HENRY HART MILMAN.

Burial of the Dead.

WHO says, the wan autumnal sun

Beams with too faint a smile

To light up nature's face again,
And, though the year be on the wane,

With thoughts of spring the heart beguile.

Waft him, thou soft September breeze,

And gently lay him down

Within some circling woodland wall,

Where bright leaves, reddening ere they fall,
Wave gaily o'er the waters brown.

And let some graceful arch be there
With wreathed mullions proud,
With burnish'd ivy for its screen,
And moss, that glows as fresh and green
As though beneath an April cloud.-

Who says the widow's heart must break,
The childless mother sink ?—

A kinder, truer voice I hear,

Which even beside that mournful bier

Whence parents' eyes would hopeless shrink

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