But timourous mortals start and shrink

To cross this narrow sea,

And linger shivering on the brink,
And fear to launch away.

O! could we make our doubts remove,
These gloomy doubts that rise,
And see the Canaan that we love,
With unbeclouded eyes!

Could we but climb where Moses stood,
And view the landscape o'er,

Not Jordan's streams, nor death's cold flood,

Should fright us from the shore.

Dr. Watts.

HOW THEY SO SOFTLY SLEEP.

How they so softly sleep,

All, all, the holy dead,

Unto whose dwelling place

Now doth my soul draw near!

How they so softly rest,
All in their silent graves,
Deep to corruption,

Slowly down sinking.

And they no longer weep,

Here, where complaint is still!
And they no longer feel,

Here, where all gladness flies!

And by the cypresses

Softly o'er shadowed,

Until the angel

Calls them, they slumber!

Longfellow from Klopstock.

I SAW THEE DECLINING.

I saw thee declining-but sickness and woe Could not quench thy soft cheek's never withering glow,

And the spirit of gentleness slept on thee still,

Like the beam of the west, on a green summer hill!

I gazed on thy features, still mournful, yet dear, And thy voice sounded tranquil and low in my ear, Oh! what must Heaven's rod to the guilty one be; Thou purest of hearts-since it falls upon thee!

THOU ART GONE HOME.

Home, home! once more th' exulting voice arose, Thou art gone home! from that divine repose Never to roam!

Never to say farewell, to weep in vain,
To read of change in eyes beloved again,

Thou art gone home.

By the bright waters thy lot is cast,

Joy for thee, my brother! thy bark hath past

The rough sea's foam.

Now the long yearnings of thy soul are still'd

Home, home! thy peace is won, thy heart is filled,

Thou art gone home.

Mrs. Hemans.

THE FIRST DAY OF DEATH.

He who hath bent him o'er the dead
Ere the first day of death is fled,
The first dark day of nothingness,
The last of danger and distress:
(Before decay's defacing fingers
Have swept the lines where beauty lingers)
And mark'd the mild angelic air,
The rapture of repose that's there:

The fixed yet tender traits that streak
The languor of the placid cheek;
And-but for that sad shrouded eye,
That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now;
And but for that chill changeless brow
Where cold obstruction's apathy

Appals the gazing mourner's heart,

As if to him it could impart

The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon ;

Yes, but for these, and these alone,

Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour,
He still might doubt the tyrant's power,
So fair, so calm, so softly sealed,

The first, last look by death revealed.-Byron.

WEEP NOT FOR THE GATHERED ROSE.

Oh, weep not for the gathered rose,

Oh, mourn not for the friend that dies, In beauty's breast the flow'ret blows; The soul is happy in the skies!

Weep not for these! but weep for those,

The unloved, the friendless, the unknown;

The flowers that wither on the stem,

The living that must live alone.-Anon.