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Shall grace the brows of one whom ye
For, him hath God raised up, to be
"To God be glory! Peace on earth!
For, with this infant Savior's birth
There comes good will to men!"
This, of thy law the sum :
THE FUTURE LIFE.
How shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps
For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless pain
In thy serenest eyes the tender thought.
Will not thy own meek heart demand me there?
That heart whose fondest throbs to me were given? My name on earth was ever in thy prayer,
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,
Shall it expire with life, and be no more?
A happier lot than mine, and larger light,
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; And wrath has left its scar-that fire of hell
Has left its frightful scar upon my soul.
Yet, though thou wear'st the glory of the sky,
Wilt thou not keep the same beloved name, The same fair thoughtful brow, and gentle eye, Lovelier in Heaven's sweet climate, yet the same?
Shalt thou not teach me in that calmer home
GOD IN NATURE.
OH mighty is the Lord of Hosts!
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,
Oh mighty is the Lord of Hosts!
Of all earth's kings, the King! Behold! he shakes the mountain pine, And plumes the whirlwinds wing!
And from his throne of majesty,
Around the universe he casts
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
Among these shades.-A voice divine
"Thy will be done!" the sufferer said:
The spot was hallowed from that hour;
And morning's dew this green spot made
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;
The first that in these grounds hath slept.
This grave, first watered with the tear
Shall learn that she who first caress'd
And often shall he come alone
When not a sound but evening's sigh Is heard, and, bowing by the stone
That bears his mother's name, with none But God and guardian angels by,
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;