To bear the yoke, to long for liberty, And dream of what will never come to pass? That they may be the pleasure of beholders. Whose birth requires his death to make them room; (No snow falls lighter than the snow of age, She throws a shroud of turf and flowers around him, Then calls the worms, and bids them do their office. 66 "Man giveth up the ghost,—and where is he?" MONTGOMERY. THE HOUR OF DEATH. EAVES have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the North-wind's breath, 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; Youth and the opening rose May look like things too glorious for decay, 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? Thou art where billows foam, Thou art where music melts upon the air; Thou art around us in our peaceful home, 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 beat 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! MRS. HEMANS, THE CHRISTIAN'S DEATH. T matters not at what hour of the day The less of this cold world, the more of heaven; MILMAN. THE CHRISTIAN'S DEATH. ALM on the bosom of thy God, E'en while with ours thy footsteps trod. His seal was on thy brow. Dust to its narrow house beneath! Soul to its place on high! They that have seen thy look in death, No more may fear to die. MRS. HEMANS. THE CHRISTIAN'S DEATH. HOU art gone to the grave! but we will not deplore thee, Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb; The Saviour has passed through its portals before thee, And the lamp of His love is thy guide through the gloom. Thou art gone to the grave! we no longer behold thee, |