No storm may shake that dwelling calm,
Nor sun nor moon may smite,
The Lord Almighty and the Lamb,
Its temple and its light.
Oh! there can be no vacant place,
No voice of sad farewell,
No parting tear, no last embrace,
For all in Christ shall dwell.
Our Father! make thy pilgrim-band
Content to sow in tears,
That we may tread Immanuel's land
Through everlasting years!
"And all the days of Methuselah were nine hundred and sixty-nine years— and he died."
AND was this all? He died! He who did wait
The slow unfolding of centurial years,
And shake that burden from his heart which turns
Our temples white, and in his freshness stand
Till cedars mouldered and firm rocks grew grey-
Left he no trace upon the page inspired,
Save this one line ?-He died.
Till all who in his early shadow rose,
Faded away, and he was left alone,
A sad, long-living, weary-hearted man,
To fear that death, remembering all beside,
Had sure forgotten him.
Perchance he roved
Exulting o'er the ever verdant vales,
While Asia's sun burned fervid on his brow;
Or 'neath some waving palm-tree sat him down,
And in his mantling bosom nursed the pride
That mocks the pale destroyer, and doth think
To live for ever!
What mighty Babels, what sublime resolves,
Might in that time-defying bosom spring,
Mature, and ripen, and cast off their fruits
For younger generations of bold thought,
To wear their harvest diadem, while we,
In the poor hour-glass of our seventy years,
Scarce see the buds of some few plants of hope,
Ere we are laid beside them, dust to dust!
Yet whatsoe'er his lot in that dim age
Of mystery, when the unwrinkled world had drunk
No deluge-cup of bitterness; whate'er
Were earth's illusions to his dazzled eye,
Death found him out at last, and coldly wrote
With icy pen, on life's protracted scroll,
Nought but this brief unflatt'ring line-" He died."
Ye gay flower-gatherers on life's crumbling brink,
This shall be said of you, howe'er ye vaunt
Your long to-morrows in an endless line;
Howe'er amid the gardens of your joy
Ye hide yourselves, and bid the pale king pass,
This shall be said of you, at last—He died;
Oh! add one sentence more-He lived to God.
THE CHRISTIAN MOURNER'S PRIVILEGE.
How sweet to think in sorrow's hour,
That He who reigns above,
Although supreme in sovereign power,
Is as supreme in love.
How sweet to know, when thus the axe
Is to our gourds decreed,
He will not quench the smoking flax,
Nor break the bruised reed.
But that to those who kiss the rod,
By Him in mercy sent,
The staff of comfort from their God
Shall in His love be lent.
Sustained thereby, with hopes serene,
Though earth's best joy seem gone,
On this, like Jacob, they shall lean,
And worship Him thereon.
For God, who binds the broken heart,
And dries the mourner's tear,
If faith and patience be their part,
Will unto these be near.
Let such but say, " Thy will be done!”
And HE who JESUS raised,
Will qualify them, through his Son,
To add, "THY NAME BE PRAISED!"
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