May each, like thee, depart in peace,

To be a glorious guest,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.

HENRY HART MILMAN.

Burial of the Dead.
W HO says, the wan autumnal sun

Beams with too faint a smile
To light up nature's face again,
And, though the year be on the wane,

With thoughts of spring the heart beguile. Waft him, thou soft September breeze,

And gently lay him down Within some circling woodland wall, Where bright leaves, reddening ere they fall,

Wave gaily o'er the waters brown.
And let some graceful arch be there

With wreathed mullions proud,
With burnish'd ivy for its screen,
And moss, that glows as fresh and green

As though beneath an April cloud.
Who says the widow's heart must break,

The childless mother sink ?--
A kinder, truer voice I hear,
Which even beside that mournful bier

Whence parents' eyes would hopeless shrink Bids weep no more-O heart bereft,

How strange, to thee, that sound!
A widow o'er her only son,
Feeling more bitterly alone

For friends that press officious round.
Yet is the voice of comfort heard,

For Christ hath touch'd the bierThe bearers wait with wondering eye, The swelling bosom dares not sigh,

But all is still, twixt hope and fear.
Even such an awful soothing calm

We sometimes see alight
On Christian mourners, while they wait
In silence, by some church-yard gate,

Their summons to the holy rite.
And such the tones of love, which break

The stillness of that hour, Quelling thembitter'd spirit's strife “ The Resurrection and the Life

“Am I: believe, and die no more.”— Unchang'd that voice—and though not yet

The dead sit up and speak, Answering its call; we gladlier rest Our darlings on earth’s quiet breast,

And our hearts feel they must not break. Far better they should sleep awhile

Within the Church's shade,
Nor wake, until new heaven, new earth,
Meet for their new immortal birth,

For their abiding-place be made,

Than wander back to life, and lean

On our frail love once more. 'Tis sweet, as year by year we lose Friends out of sight, in faith to muse

How grows our Paradise in store.

Then pass, ye mourners, cheerly on,

Through prayer unto the tomb;
Still, as ye watch life’s falling leaf,
Gathering from every loss and grief

Hope of new spring and endless home.
Then cheerly to your work again,

With hearts new-brac'd and set
To run, untir'd, love's blessed race,
As meet for those, who face to face
Over the grave their Lord have met.

KEBLE.

Be glad, my Soul ! and Sing amidst

thy Pleasure. TROM eastern quarters now

The sun 's up-wandering, His rays on the rock's brow

And hill's side squandering ; Be glad, my soul! and sing amidst thy pleasure,

Fly from the house of dust,

Up, with thy thanks, and trust To heaven's azure !

O, countless as the grains

Of sand so tiny, Measureless as the main's

Deep waters briny, God's mercy is, which he upon me showereth!

Each morning, in my shell,

A grace immeasureable To me down-poureth.

Thou best dost understand,

Lord God! my needing, And placed is in thy hand

My fortune's speeding, And thou foreseest what is for me most fitting;

Be still, then, O my soul !

To manage in the whole Thy God permitting !

May fruit the land array,

And corn for eating !
May truth e'er make its way,

With justice meeting !
Give thou to me my share with every other,

Till down my staff I lay,

And from this world away Wend to another!

Thomas KINGO, Trans. Anon.

Contrasts necessary for Happiness. W HEN all the year our fields are fresh and

green, And while sweet showers and sunshine, every

day, As oft as need requireth, come between

The heavens and earth, they heedless pass away. The fullness and continuance of a blessing

Doth make us to be senseless of the good;
And if sometimes it fly not our possessing,

The sweetness of it is not understood;
Had we no winter, summer would be thought

Not half so pleasing; and if tempests were not, Such comforts by a calm could not be brought;

For things, save by their opposites, appear not. Both health and wealth are tasteless unto some,

And so is ease and every other pleasure, Till poor, or sick, or grieved, they become,

And then they relish these in ampler measure. God, therefore, full of kind, as He is wise,

So tempereth all the favours He will do us, That we his bounties may the better prize,

And make his chastisements less bitter to us. One while a scorching indignation burns

The flowers and blossoms of our hopes away, Which into scarcity our plenty turns,

And changeth new mown grass to parched hay; Anon his fruitful showers and pleasing dews, Commixed with cheerful rays, He sendeth

down,