THOU ART GONE TO THY REST. THOU art gone to thy rest, brother! For thou art now where oft on earth Thou art gone to thy rest, brother! Thou art gone to thy rest, brother! And saints in light have welcomed thee Thou art gone to thy rest, brother! Thy dear Redeemer's might hath gained 'WHILE the child was living,' says David, 'I fasted and wept; for I said, Who can tell whether the Lord may be gracious unto me, that the child should live? But now that he is dead, wherefore should I fast? Can I bring him back again? I shall go to him, but he shall not return to me.' THE LOSS OF CHILDREN. FLAVEL. MOURNER, whatever may be your grief for the death of your children, it might have been still greater for their life. Bitter experience once led a good man to say, 'It is better to weep for ten children dead, than for one living.' Remember the heart-piercing affliction of David, whose son sought his life. Your love for your children will hardly admit of the thought of such a thing as possible, in your own case. They appeared innocent and amiable; and you fondly believed, that through your care and prayers, they would have become the joy of your hearts. But may not Esau, when a child, have promised as much comfort to his parents as Jacob? Probably he had as many of their prayers and counsels. But as years advanced, he despised their admonitions, and filled their hearts with grief. As a promoter of family religion, who ever received such an encomium from the God of heaven as Abraham ? How tenderly did the good man pray for Ishmael! O that Ishmael might live be fore thee!' Ishmael afford. Yet how little comfort did Alas! in these days of degeneracy, parents much more frequently witness the vices of their children than their virtues. And even should your children prove amiable and promising, you might live to be the wretched witness of their sufferings. Some parents have felt unutterable agonies of this kind. God may have taken the lamented objects of your affection from the evil to come. When extraordinary calamities are coming on the world, he frequently hides some of his feebler children in the grave. Surely, at such a portentous period, it is happier for such as are prepared, to be lodged in that peaceful mansion, than to be exposed to calamities and distresses here. Thus intimates the prophet Jeremiah,' Weep not for the dead, neither bemoan him; but weep sore for him that goeth away; for he shall return no more, nor see his native country.' It was in a day when the faith and patience of the saints were peculiarly tried, that the voice from heaven said, 'Write, blessed are the dead, which die in the Lord, from henceforth.' THE HOUR OF DEATH. MRS. HEMANS. LEAVES have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, And stars to set- but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O, Death! Day is for mortal care, Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer, But all for thee, thou Mightiest of the earth! The banquet hath its hour, Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine; There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power, A time for softer tears but all are thine! Youth and the opening rose May look like things too glorious for decay, And smile at thee! - but thou art not of those That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey! Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, And stars to set - but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O, Death! We know when moons shall wane, When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea, When Autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain, But who shall teach us when to look for thee? Is it when spring's first gale Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie? Is it when roses in our paths grow pale? They have one season-all are ours to die! Thou art where billows foam, Thou art where music melts upon the air; Thou art around us in our peaceful home, And the world calls us forth- and thou art there! Thou art where friend meets friend, Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest; Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords bear down the princely crest. Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, And stars to set- but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O, Death! |