Let grief not awaken one dewy tear,

But deem our spirits are hovering near,
Then humbly kneel on our graves and pray
To the Christian's God and the Christian's stay.

"Death has no terror-Disease no pain;
For I know I shall meet ye in Heaven again!"

She closed-within her mother's arms
The maiden breathed her last;
And gently as the south wind dies
Her spirit from us passed.

TO THE DEAD.

J. G. C. BRAINERD.

How many now are dead to me

That live to others yet!

How many are alive to me

Who crumble in their graves, nor see

That sickening, sinking look, which we
Till dead can ne'er forget.

Beyond the blue seas, far away,

Most wretchedly alone,

One died in prison, far away,

Where stone on stone shut out the day,

And never hope or comfort's ray

In his lone dungeon shone.

Dead to the world, alive to me,

Though months and years have pass'd; In a lone hour, his sigh to me Comes like the hum of some wild bee, And then his form and face I see,

As when I saw him last.

And one with a bright lip, and cheek,

And eye, is dead to me.

How pale the bloom of his smooth cheek! His lip was cold-it would not speak : His heart was dead, for it did not break: And his eye, for it did not see.

Then for the living be the tomb,
And for the dead the smile;
Engrave oblivion on the tomb
Of pulseless life and deadly bloom,-
Dim is such glare: but bright the gloom
Around the funeral pile.

A DEATH-BED.

JAMES ALDRICH.

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!

"BLESSED ARE THE DEAD."

LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.

COME, gather to this burial-place, ye gay!
Ye, of the sparkling eye, and frolic brow,
I bid ye hither. She, who makes her bed
This day, 'neath yon damp turf, with spring-flow-

ers sown,

Was one of you. Time had not laid his hand
On tress or feature, stamping the dread lines
Of chill decay, till Death had nought to do,
Save that slight office which the passing gale
Doth to the wasted taper. No, her cheek
Shamed the young rose-bud; in her eye was light
By gladness kindled; in her footsteps grace;
Song on her lips; affections in her breast,
Like soft doves nesting. Yet, from all she turned,
All she forsook, unclasping her warm hand
From Friendship's ardent pressure, with such
smile

As if she were the gainer. To lie down
In this dark pit she cometh, dust to dust,

Ashes to ashes, till the glorious morn
Of resurrection. Wondering do you ask-
Where is her blessedness? Go home, ye gay,
Go to your secret chambers, and kneel down,
And ask of God. Urge your request like him
Who on the slight raft, 'mid the ocean's foam,
Toileth for life. And when ye win a hope
That the world gives not, and a faith divine,
Ye will no longer marvel how the friend
So beautiful, so loved, so lured by all

The pageantry on earth, could meekly find
A blessedness in death.

SONG.

J. H. BRIGHT.

SHOULD sorrow o'er thy brow
Its darken'd shadows fling,
And hopes that cheer thee now,
Die in their early spring;
Should pleasure at its birth
Fade like the hues of even,
Turn thou away from earth,-
There's rest for thee in heaven!

If ever life shall seem

To thee a toilsome way,

And gladness cease to beam
Upon its clouded day;

If, like the wearied dove,

O'er shoreless ocean driven,

Raise thou thine eye above,

There's rest for thee in heaven!

But, O! if always flowers

Throughout thy pathway bloom,
And gayly pass the hours,
Undimmed by earthly gloom;
Still let not every thought
To this poor world be given,
Not always be forgot

Thy better rest in heaven!

When sickness pales thy cheek,
And dims thy lustrous eye,
And pulses low and weak

Tell of a time to die

Sweet hope shall whisper then,

"Though thou from earth be riven,

There's bliss beyond thy ken,-
There's rest for thee in heaven!"

TRIBUTARY STANZAS.

A DIRGE for the budding flower,

Which shrank from our freezing night,

And went to fulfil its dower,

To bloom in its Maker's sight.