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May each, like thee, depart in peace,
To be a glorious guest,
HENRY HART MILMAN.
Burial of the Dead.
Beams with too faint a smile
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.
With wreathed mullions proud,
As though beneath an April cloud.
The childless mother sink ?--
Whence parents' eyes would hopeless shrink Bids weep no more-O heart bereft,
How strange, to thee, that sound!
For friends that press officious round.
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.
We sometimes see alight
Their summons to the holy rite.
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,
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;
Hope of new spring and endless home.
With hearts new-brac'd and set
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 !
With justice meeting !
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;
The sweetness of it is not understood;
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