Thou art gone to the grave! and, its mansions forsaking, But the sunshine of heaven beamed bright on thy waking, And the sound which thou heard'st was the seraphim's song Thou art gone to the grave! but we will not deplore thee, While God was thy ransom, thy guardian, thy guide; He gave thee, and took thee, and He will restore thee, And death hath no sting, for the Saviour hath died. HEBER THE CHRISTIAN'S DEATH. ROTHER, thou art gone before us, Where tears are wiped from every eye, And sorrow is unknown; From the burden of the flesh, And from care and fear released, Where the wicked cease from troubling, And the weary are at rest. The toilsome way thou'st travelled o'er, But Christ hath taught thy languid feet Thou art sleeping now, like Lazarus, Where the wicked cease from troubling, Sin can never taint thee now, Nor doubt thy faith assail, Nor thy meek trust in Jesus Christ And the Holy Spirit fail: And there thou'rt sure to meet the good, Whom on earth thou lovedst best, "Earth to earth," and "dust to dust," The solemn priest hath said, Where the wicked cease from troubling, And when the Lord shall summon us, May we, untainted by the world, May each, like thee, depart in peace, To be a glorious guest, Where the wicked cease from troubling, And the weary are at rest. EFLECTED on the lake, I love So restless in the waves below. Thus heavenly hope is all serene, Still fluctuates o'er this changing scene, TOWNSHEND. THE SAILOR'S HOPE. POOR child of danger, nursling of the storm, Sad are the woes that wreck thy manly form! Rocks, waves, and winds, the shattered bark delay; Thy heart is sad, thy home is far away. But hope can here her moonlight vigils keep CAMPBELL. THE DYING POET'S HOPE. It is well known that the messenger who brought the intelligence that the laureate crown had been decreed to Tasso, found him dying in a convent. OLD on Torquato's silence fell The shadow of the tomb, When sounds of triumph reached his cell, Amid the cloister's gloom: "Awake! the crown awaits thee now; Ccme, bind the laurel to thy brow. Haste where the peerless capitol Two thousand years hath shone; Thee to their ancient throne; And they had but one name of old- "Vain voice! thou comest," said the bard, "When hope itself is o'er; But now my spirit's depths are stirred By dreams of earth no more. For who would deem the mirage true, Yet I have loved the praise of men How prized had been thy hidings then! Why came it not when o'er my life Long in mine eyes the golden sand The dimness of my soul hath past- A land where blight hath never been, But keep the heart, too, ever green Unlike the proudest palms of earth, Yet still it lives-my first, last dream— Woe for the blight that early came- Woe for the hope whose joys departs- But to the power of hope and faith And all that love hath lost on earth, FRANCES BROWN. WEEP NOT FOR ME. HEN the spark of life is waning, When the languid eye is straining, When the feeble pulse is ceasing, Start not at its swift decreasing, 'Tis the fettered soul's releasing; Weep not for me. When the pangs of death assail me, Christ is mine-he cannot fail me, Weep not for me. Yes, though sin and doubt endeavour From his love my soul to sever, Jesus is my strength for ever Weep not for me. DALE. |