HUMAN LIFE. HAT is this mystery of Human Life? Alike, a pilgrim's progress through this world To each distinct adventurer by the way! Through various bodies, various states of being: -on what Are incoherent as its own crude visions: We but begin to live from that fine point Which memory dwells on, with the morning star, When thoughts themselves were stars, and birds, and flowers, Pure brilliance, simplest music, wild perfume. The Boy, the Girl, when all was joy, hope, promise; To bear the yoke, to long for liberty, That they may be the pleasure of beholders. The Man;- 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. "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, 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, And smile at thee! but thou art not of those That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey! Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the North-wind's breath, 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 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 righteous fall asleep; Death cannot come The less of this cold world, the more of heaven; MILMAN. THE CHRISTIAN'S DEATH. PALM 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, Thou art gone to the grave! and, its mansions forsaking, But the sunshine of heaven beamed bright on thy waking, 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 thy meek trust in Jesus Christ And there thou'rt sure to meet the good, Whom on earth thou lovedst best, Where the wicked cease from troubling, Γ |