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HE HAS GONE TO HIS GOD.

HE HAS GONE TO HIS GOD.

ANDREWS NORTON.

He has gone to his God; he has gone to his home; No more amid peril and error to roam.

His eyes are no longer dim

;

His feet will no more falter;

No grief can follow him;

No pang his cheek can alter.

There are paleness, and weeping, and sighs below; For our faith is faint, and our tears will flow.

But the harps of heaven are ringing ;

Glad angels come to greet him ;
And hymns of joy are singing,

While old friends press to meet him.

O, honored, beloved, to earth unconfined,
Thou hast soared on high, thou hast left us behind.
But our parting is not forever;

We will follow thee by heaven's light,

Where the grave cannot dissever

The souls whom God will unite.

THE GRAVE.

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

THERE is a calm for those who weep,
A rest for weary pilgrims found:
They softly lie, and sweetly sleep,
Low in the ground.

The storm, that wrecks the wintry sky,
No more disturbs their deep repose
Than summer evening's latest sigh,
That shuts the rose.

I long to lay this painful head

And aching heart beneath the soil, To slumber, in that dreamless bed, From all my toil.

The grave, that never spoke before,

Hath found at length a tongue to chide; O, listen! I will speak no more

Be silent, pride!

Art thou a mourner?

Hast thou known

The joy of innocent delights,

Endearing days forever flown,

And tranquil nights?

O, live! and deeply cherish still
The sweet remembrance of the past;
Rely on Heaven's unchanging will
For peace at last.

Though long of winds and waves the sport,
Condemned in wretchedness to roam,
Live! thou shalt reach a sheltering port,
A quiet home.

Seek the true treasure, seldom found,
Of power the fiercest griefs to calm,
And soothe the bosom's deepest wound
With heavenly balm.

Whate'er thy lot, where'er thou be,
Confess thy folly-kiss the rod;
And in thy chastening sorrows see
The hand of God.

A bruiséd reed he will not break;
Afflictions all his children feel;
He wounds them for his mercy's sake -
He wounds to heal.

Humbled beneath his mighty hand,
Prostrate his providence adore :
"Tis done! arise! he bids thee stand,
To fall no more.

Now, traveller, in the vale of tears,
To realms of everlasting light,

Through time's dark wilderness of years,
Pursue thy flight.

There is a calm for those who weep,
A rest for weary pilgrims found;
And while the mouldering ashes sleep
Low in the ground,-

The soul, of origin divine,

God's glorious image freed from clay,
In heaven's eternal sphere shall shine
A star of day!

The sun is but a spark of fire,
A transient meteor in the sky;
The soul, immortal as its Sire,

SHALL NEVER DIE!

THE GRAVE.

JONES.

"MAN goeth to his long home;" to "the house appointed for all living." "There the wicked cease from troubling, and there the weary be at rest. There the prisoners rest together; they hear not the voice of the oppressor. The small and great are there; and the servant is free from his master."

As a flower of the field, so man springs up, grows, flourishes, and fades, and disappears. He may be cut off in the morning, or in the midst, of his days, or his existence may be prolonged to old age; but every step that he takes on earth is a step towards the grave. The day will come when the frail tenement shall be consigned to the dust. "I have said to corruption, Thou art my father; to the worm, Thou art my mother and my sister."

This world will soon be to me a mere nothing. I shall exist, but I shall be a stranger to the plans, cares, sorrows, and vicissitudes of my successors in this vale of tears. I shall soon be forgotten; and ages will revolve, and generation succeed generation, while this dust and ashes shall be mingled with the clods of the valley, and with the elements of nature. But while I meditate on what lies before me, let me not fail to gather substantial improvement from the subject. Lessons of piety are valuable lessons. While then I look upon the grave, let me learn the necessity of dying to the world, before I die in it. Let me be urged to lay up treasures for that state of being where there is no change and no end.

Is the grave to be ere long my dwelling? How, then, can I fix my heart on earthly things? The rich, and great, and wise, and powerful among men go down to the chambers of silence. "We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out. And having food and raiment, let us be therewith content." The shroud, the coffin, the bier, and the grave -these teach me the emptiness of the world, and the