And laden souls, by myriads meekly stealing, Kind Shepherd, turn their weary steps to Thee.

Rest comes at length; though life be long and dreary,

The day must dawn and darksome night be past;

All journeys end in welcomes to the weary,

And heaven, the heart's true home, will come at last.

Cheer up my soul! faith's moonbeams softly glisten

Upon the breast of life's most troubled sea; And it will cheer thy drooping heart to listen To those brave songs which angels mean for thee.

Angels! sing on, your faithful watches keeping, Sing us sweet fragments of the songs above; While we toil on, and soothe ourselves with weeping,

Till life's long night shall break in endless love. Oratory Hymns.

THE DEATH OF A CHRISTIAN.

HE Apostle slept,—a light shone in

the prison,

An angel touched his side;

"Arise!" he said; and quickly he hath risen,

His fettered arms untied.

The watchers saw no light at midnight gleaming,

They heard no sound of feet;

The gates fly open, and the saint, still dreaming,

Stands free upon the street.

So when the Christian's eyelid droops and closes

In nature's parting strife,

A friendly Angel stands where he reposes,
To wake him up to life.

He gives a gentle blow, and so releases
The spirit from its clay;

From sin's temptations, and from life's distresses,

He bids it come away.

It rises up, and from its darksome mansion
It takes its silent flight;

And feels its freedom in the large expansion
Of heavenly air and light.

Behind, it hears Time's iron gates close faintly,
It now is far from them;

For it has reached the City of the saintly,
The New Jerusalem.

A voice is heard on earth of kinsfolk weeping The loss of one they love:

But he is gone where the redeemed are keeping A Festival above!

The mourners throng the way, and from the steeple

The funeral-bell tolls slow;

But on the golden streets the holy people
Are passing to and fro;

And singing as they meet, "Rejoice! another, Long waited for, is come;"

The Saviour's heart is glad, a younger brother

Hath reached the Father's Home!

THE VANITY OF THE WORLD.

ALSE world, thou ly'st: thou canst

not lend

The least delight:

Thy favours cannot gain a friend,
They are so slight:

Thy morning's pleasures make an end

To please at night:

Poor are the wants that thou supply'st,

And yet thou vaun'st, and yet thou vy'st With heaven; fond earth, thou boasts; false world, thou ly'st.

Thy babbling tells of golden tales

Of endless treasure;

Thy bounty offers easy sales

Of lasting pleasure;

Thou ask'st the conscience what she ails,

And swear'st to ease her:

There's none can want where

ply'st:

thou sup