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, 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, 1; They pluck no thorn-clad flowers, Who are so greatly blest? From whom hath sorrow fled? 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, For those who throng the eternal throne, They are the living, they alone, Mrs. Sigourney. Faith. RAPT in the robe of Faith, 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, 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 To warn me back to thy control; 1 The errors of my heart I know; And holy purposes arise, But, like the morning clouds, decay, As empty, though as fair, as they. Forgive the weakness I deplore; 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, |