I see the old man in his grave
With thin locks silvery-gray;
I see the child's bright tresses wave
In the cold breath of day.

The loving ones we loved the best,
Like music, all are gone!

And the wan moonlight bathes in rest
Their monumental stone.

But not when the death prayer is said
The life of life departs;
The body in the grave is laid,
Its beauty in our hearts.

At holy midnight, voices sweet
Like fragrance fill the room,
And happy ghosts with noiseless feet
Come bright'ning from the tomb.

We know who sends the visions bright,
From whose dear side they came !-

We veil our eyes before the light,
We bless our Saviour's name.

This frame of dust, this feeble breath,
The plague may soon destroy;
We think on Thee, and feel in death
A deep and awful joy.

Dim is the light of vanish'd years
In the glory yet to come;
Oh, idle grief! oh, foolish tears!
When Jesus calls us home.

Blessed are the Dead.

Like children for some bauble fair
That weep themselves to rest,
We part with life-awake! and there
The jewel in our breast.

S

Blessed are the Dead.

Rev. xiv. 13.

J. E. CARPENTER.-Music by Türk.

TREW his early grave with flowers,
They the fragile emblems are;

He has gain'd those blissful bowers
In the cloudless realms afar;
There the blooms that never wither
Shall their incense round him shed,
Grieve not-Heaven has called him thither;
Weep not-Blessed are the dead!

Father—think he is but sleeping,
Though 'tis darkness there to thee;
Mother-stand not idly weeping,

He'll his Heavenly Father see;
Though your hearts with grief are breaking,
Joys celestial round him spread,

Death is but to Life awaking :—

Weep not-Blessed are the dead.

197

T

The Bird Let Loose.

T. MOORE.-Air, Beethoven.

HE bird let loose in eastern skies,*
When hastening fondly home,

Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies
Where idle warblers roam.

But high she shoots through air and light,
Above all low delay,

When nothing earthly bounds her flight,
Nor shadow dims her way.

So grant me, God, from every care
And stain of passion free,
Aloft, through Virtue's purer air,
To hold my course to Thee!
No sin to cloud, no lure to stay
My soul, as home she springs;
Thy sunshine on her joyful way,
Thy freedom in her wings!

Sabbath Morn.

Psalm v. 3.

J. E. CARPENTER.-Music by F. Wallersticn.

ILENCE without, and calm within the dwelling,

The lazy flowrets slumber in the sun;

The half-mown hay stands in the meadow, telling

The busy labour of the week is done.

*The carrier pigeon, it is well known, flies at an elevated pitch, in order to surmount every obstacle between her and the place to which she is destined.

Sabbath Eve.

Faintly, yet clear, the village bells are ringing,
From distant cots the peasant band to warn ;
Their anthems in the grove the birds are singing;
And all proclaims it is the Sabbath morn.

199

Through the green lanes the village groups are bending;
By primrose banks the children take their way,
Where the tall spire, above the trees ascending,
Proclaims to all it is the hallow'd day.

Sweet to the senses breathe the leaves and flowers,
The heart leaps up to see the growing corn;
We thank thee, Father, for these peaceful hours
Of prayer and rest-Thy holy Sabbath morn.

Sabbath Eve.

Psalm xxxiv. 7.

J. E. CARPENTER.-Music by F. Wallerstien.

I

WANDER'D forth one Sabbath eve,

When twilight shrouded hill and stream,

And holy angels seem'd to weave

For weary hearts some blissful dream.

The sun had set behind the hill,

No sound disturb'd the tranquil air;

The voice of bee and bird was still,
The very flowers seem'd bow'd in prayer.
Sweet Sabbath eve!

It may be that I slept a while,

For when again I mark'd the skies,
The moon beam'd with a placid smile,
The stars had oped their golden eyes.

And when, once more, I turn'd to roam,
My weary heart again grew light ;
With chasten'd soul I sought my home,
And bless'd my God that gave the night.
Sweet Sabbath eve!

The Pilot.

W. E. STAITE.—Music by E. J. Loder.

HEN murky clouds obscure the sky,

WHEN

When billows roll and winds are high, And not one star of beauty's night

Sheds o'er my way its cheering light,
Dash'd on the wild tempestuous tide,
My shatter'd bark shall safely ride,
If Thou the Pilot's part perform,

To guide and guard me through the storm.

'Tis thou, O Lord, canst whisper peace,
And bid the storms of trouble cease;
Though half a wreck my barque I view,
Thine arm can steer me safely through.
Thy love shall bid my fears depart,

Thy voice shall cheer my trembling heart, If Thou the Pilot's part perform,

To guide and guard me through the storm.

The Child's Grave.

MRS JANE T. WORTHINGTON.

T is a place where tender thought

IT

Its voiceless vigil keepeth;

It is a place where kneeling love,
'Mid all its hope, still weepeth: