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And grant that she who, trembling, here Distrusted all her powers,

May welcome to her holier home

The well beloved of ours.

J. G. Whittier.

The Christian's Death.

IFT not thou the wailing voice, Weep not, 'tis a Christian dieth. Up, where blessed saints rejoice, Ransomed now, the spirit flieth; High in heaven's own light, she dwelleth ; Full the song of triumph swelleth ; Freed from earth and earthly failing, Lift for her no voice of wailing.

Pour not thou the bitter tear;

Heaven its book of comfort opeth ;

Bids thee sorrow not, nor fear,

But as one who always hopeth,

Humbly here in faith relying,
Peacefully in Jesus dying,

Heavenly joy her eye is flushing

Why should thine with tears be gushing?

They who die in Christ are blest.

Ours be, then, no thought of grieving; Sweetly with their God they rest,

All their toils and troubles leaving. So be ours the faith that saveth, Hope that every trial braveth,

Love that to the end endureth,

And, through Christ, the crown secureth.

G. W. Doans.

The Pious Dead.

HEY dread no storm that lowers,
No perished joys bewail

1;

They pluck no thorn-clad flowers,
Nor drink of streams that fail :
There is no tear-drop in their eye,
Nor change upon their brow;
The placid bosom heaves no sigh,
Though all earth's idols bow.

Who are so greatly blest?

From whom hath sorrow fled?
Who find such deep unbroken rest,

While all things toil?-the dead:

The pious dead! Why weep ye so

Above their sable bier?

Thrice blessèd, they have done with woe: The living claim the tear.

We dream, but they awake;

Dark visions mar our rest;

Mid thorns and snares our way we take,
And yet we mourn the blest!

For those who throng the eternal throne,
Lost are the tears we shed:

They are the living, they alone,
Whom thus we call the dead.

Mrs. Sigourney.

Faith.

RAPT in the robe of Faith,
Come to the place of prayer,
And seal thy deathless vows to Him
Who makes thy life his care.

Doth he thy sunny skies

O'ercloud with tempest gloom?

Or take the idol of thy breast

And hide it in the tomb?

Or bid thy treasured joys

In hopeless ruin lie?

Search not his reasons,-wait his will;

The record is on high.

For should he strip thy heart

Of all it loves on earth,
And set thee naked and alone,
As at thy day of birth;

He cannot do thee wrong,

Those gifts were his at first,— Draw nearer to his changeless throne,

Bow deeper in the dust.

Calls he thy parting soul,

Unbodied, from the throng?

Cling closer to thy Saviour's cross,

And raise the victor's song.

Mrs. Sigourney.

Hymn in Sickness.

ATHER! thy gentle chastisement
Falls kindly on my burdened soul;
I see its merciful intent,

To warn me back to thy control;
And pray, that, while I kiss the rod,
I may find perfect peace with God.

1

The errors of my heart I know;
I feel my deep infirmities;
For often virtuous feelings glow

And holy purposes arise,

But, like the morning clouds, decay,

As empty, though as fair, as they.

Forgive the weakness I deplore;
And let thy peace abound in me,
That I
may trust my heart no more,
But wholly cast myself on thee.
Oh, let my Father's strength be mine,

And

my

devoted life be thine.

Henry Ware, Jun.

Going Home.

Suggested by the Words of a dying Friend-" Before morning I

H

shall be at Home."

OME! Home! its glorious threshold,
Through parting clouds I see,
Those mansions by a Saviour bought,
Where I have longed to be.
And, lo! a bright unnumbered host
O'erspread the heavenly plain,
Not one is silent-every harp
Doth swell th' adoring strain.

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