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the brows of one whom ye
Shall in a manger find;
For, him hath God raised up, to be
The Savior of mankind.
"To God be glory! Peace on earth!
For, with this infant Savior's birth
THE FUTURE LIFE.
How shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps
When all of thee that time could wither sleeps
For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless pain
Will not thy own meek heart demand me there?
Shall it be banished from thy tongue in heaven?
In meadows fanned by heaven's life-breathing wind, In the resplendence of that glorious sphere,
And larger movements of the unfettered mind,
The love that lived through all the stormy past,
A happier lot than mine, and larger light,
In cheerful homage to the rule of right,
And lovest all, and renderest good for ill.
For me, the sordid cares in which I dwell
Shrink and consume the heart, as heat the scroll;
Yet, though thou wear'st the glory of the sky,
Shalt thou not teach me in that calmer home
The wisdom that is love,-till I become
GOD IN NATURE.
On mighty is the Lord of Hosts!
He speaks, and in its palaces
He wields the awful lightning-brand,
Or, conquering, tramps right royally
His earthquakes shake the eternal hills
And the swift whirlwind, spinning o'er
He sows death in the red simoon,
He speaks! and mist-wrapt pestilence,
Oh mighty is the Lord of Hosts!
And from his throne of majesty,
Upon the bended sky,
Around the universe he casts
His all-beholding eye!
She selected the place for her grave in a new cemetery of a rural village, while she felt herself sinking under the power of consumption. She was the first whose remains were laid in that beautiful resting-place of the dead.
WHILE yet she lived, she walked alone
"Thy will be done!" the sufferer said:-
By the pale moon-herself more pale
And spirit-like-these walks she trod;
That spirit, with an angel's wings,
Went up, from the young mother's bed.
She sleepeth!"-yea, she sleepeth here;
This grave, first watered with the tear
The babe that lay upon her breast,-—
A rose-bud dropped on drifted snow,—
Shall learn that she who first caress'd
And often shall he come alone
Shall say "This was my mother's choice
IF I had Jubal's chorded shell,
O'er which the first-born music rolled, In burning tones, that loved to dwell Amongst those wires of trembling gold; If to my soul one note were given
Of that high harp, whose sweeter tone Caught its majestic strain from heaven, And glowed like fire round Israel's throne;