That swells around thee in the sacred fane; Or catch the solemn organ's pealing note, When grateful praises on the still air float, And the freed soul forgets earth's heavy chain; There learn that Peace, sweet Peace, is ever found In her eternal home, on holy ground. EMMA C. EMBURY. I The Nosegay of Life. MADE a posy, while the day ran by : But time did beckon to the flowers, and they My hand was next to them, and then my heart; I took, without more thinking, in good part Time's gentle admonition; Who did so sweetly death's sad taste convey, Yet sugaring the suspicion. Farewell, dear flowers; sweetly your time ye spent, Fit, while ye liv'd, for smell or ornament : And after death for cures. I follow straight, without complaints or grief; It be as short as yours. GEORGE HERBERT. The Good Life, Long Life. IT is not growing like a tree In bulk doth make man better be! Or standing long an oak three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere; A lily of a day Is fairer far in May, Although it fall and die that night; It was the plant and flower of light. In small proportions we just beauties see, BEN JONSON. They are not Dead, they do but Sleep. L' EFT in her little room alone, The Ruler's child lay stiff and dead, While, vainly warm, the Syrian sun Played round her cold and silent bed; While, vainly soft, from Judah's hills Sighed through the lattice the soft air, The voice of anguish and despair Of them lamenting bitterly Her early doom with groan and tear. Her mother maketh grievous moan:— Comes o'er the plain his hastening tread! Go tell him that he trouble not The Master more; my child is dead.” Dead! is all o'er when that is said? Are hope, and trust, and comfort, gone? He stands amid the mourning throng; Yea, but they see not the strong power Go forth, then, unbelieving throng; Shall see her spirit come again. He takes her cold resistless hand : Damsel, I say to thee, arise!" Her lip is red, her heart is warm; Surely, we too have hope in sorrow, ANON. Thou art Gone to the Grave. THOU 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, Nor tread the rough path of the world by thy side, But the wide arms of mercy are spread to enfold thee, And sinners may hope since the Sinless has died. Thou art gone to the grave-and its mansion forsaking, Perhaps thy tried spirit in doubt lingered long, But the sunshine of heaven beamed bright on thy waking, And the song which thou heard'st was the seraphim's song. Thou art gone to the grave-but 'twere wrong to deplore thee, When God was thy ransom, thy guardian, thy guide: He gave thee, and took thee, and soon will restore thee, Where death hath no sting, since the Saviour hath died. BISHOP HEBER. The Fool hath said, “There is no THE fool hath said, “There is no God:" Steal o'er the night-vales, dark and damp? |