A DEATH-BED.

His heart replete with Christian grace
Found joy in suffering;

To him the grave no victory had,
And death no sting.

May I so live, that, when I feel
Death knocking at my heart,
My faith may bid all fear "Be still!"
As I depart.

A DEATH-BED.

JAMES ALDRICH.

321

HER suffering ended with the day,

Yet lived she at its close,

And breathed the long, long night away,

In statue-like repose.

But when the sun, in all his state,

Illumed the eastern skies,

She passed through glory's morning gate,

And walked in Paradise!

THE MARTYRDOM OF PERPETUA.

A. D. 202.

S. G. BULFINCH.

THERE sat within a dungeon's gloom
A female form of mournful grace.
Thoughts of her stern approaching doom
Had driven the rose-tint from her face.
Yet not for that, amid her woe,

Did her high heart its faith resign;

And that pale cheek at times would glow With light, whose glory was divine.

They came, the dear ones of her hearth, To whom her earthly love was given ; They strove to win again to earth

The spirit, ready now for heaven. Husband and sister sued in vain,

In vain, though burning tears replied; To love she gave those drops of pain, Triumphant over all beside.

Her aged father came and knelt,

Bowed his white locks before his child;

And the sad daughter deeply felt,

Yet through her tears looked up and smi They brought her infant; as he lay Before her, in his slumber fair,

THE MARTYRDOM OF PERPETUA.

Almost the mother's heart gave way,

But God had heard his martyr's prayer.

Her strength arose. "My child shall be
Safe in thy sheltering care, my God!
I give him, this sad hour, to thee:
And when this dreadful path is trod,
May I not hope in robes of light

To hover o'er his slumbering head,
And o'er my father's locks of white
A spirit-daughter's blessing shed?”

She died; that spirit, calm and high,
Sustained her through the dreadful hour;
She died as those alone can die

Whom faith in God has girt with power.
To her own fearless heart, her hand
Guided the gladiator's sword.

Yet, through their grief, the Christian band
That night the hymn of triumph poured.

The pure, the faithful, was at rest;
For her a glorious crown was won,
And now in mansions of the blest

On that fair brow for ever shone.
And courage rose to meet their death

In those the Christians' path who trod;

And, won by her undaunted faith,

A thousand heathen turned to God.

323

SONNET.

1 CORINTHIANS XV.

GEORGE LUNT.

O FOOL, to judge that He who from the earth
Created man, cannot his form restore!
The scattered elements from every shore
Call back and clothe with a celestial birth!
See from its sheath the buried seed break forth
Blade, stalk, leaf, bud, and now the perfect
flower,

Changing and yet the same, and of His power
A token each; and art thou counted worth
Less than the meanest herb? Changed from the
dust,

And little lower than the angels made,

More changed by sin, to death itself betrayed, Yet heir of heaven by an immortal trust. Doubter unwise, in reason's narrow school,

Well might the great Apostle say, " Thou fool!”

A FUNERAL SONG.

325

66

A FUNERAL SONG.

FROM THE FUNERAL DAY OF SIR WALTER SCOTT."

MRS. HEMANS.

LOWLY and solemn be

Thy children's cry to thee,
Father divine!

A hymn of suppliant breath,
Owning that life and death
Alike are thine!

A spirit on its way
Sceptred the earth to sway
From thee was sent:

Now call'st thou back thine own,
Hence is that radiance flown,
To earth but lent.

Watching in breathless awe,
The bright head bowed we saw
Beneath thy hand!

Filled by one hope, one fear,

Now o'er a brother's bier

Weeping we stand.

How hath he passed, — the lord

Of each deep bosom chord,

To meet thy sight!