V

DEATH

L

CXXVIII

MAN'S MORTALITY

IKE as the damask rose you see,

Or as the blossom on the tree,
Or like the dainty flower of May,
Or like the morning to the day,
Or like the sun, or like the shade,
Or like the gourd which Jonas had,
E'en such is man; - whose thread is spun,
Drawn out, and cut, and so is done.
The rose withers, the blossom blasteth,
The flower fades, the morning hasteth,
The sun sets, the shadow flies,
The gourd consumes—and man, he dies.
Like to the grass that's newly sprung,
Or like a tale that 's new begun,
Or like the bird that's here to-day,
Or like the pearlèd dew of May,
Or like an hour, or like a span,
Or like the singing of a swan,

E'en such is man ;- - who lives by breath,
Is here, now there, in life, and death.
The grass withers, the tale is ended,
The bird is flown, the dews ascended,
The hour is short, the span not long,
The swan's near death, - man's life is done.
S. Wastell

CXXIX

TO GOD IN HIS SICKNESS

W Both hung upon

HAT though my harp and viol be

the willow-tree?

What though my bed be now my grave,
And for my house I darkness have?
What though my healthful days are fled,
And I lie numbered with the dead?
Yet I have hope, by Thy great power,
To spring - though now a withered flower.

R. Herrick

CXXX

A HAPPY DEATH

S precious gums are not for lasting fire,

They but perfume the temple and expire; So was she born, exhaled, and vanished hence, A short sweet odor, of a vast expense. She vanished, we can scarcely say she died; For but a now did heaven and earth divide ; She passed serenely with a single breath ; This moment perfect health, the next was death. As gentle dreams on waking thoughts pursue; Or one dream passed, we slide into a new ; So close they follow, such wild order keep, We think ourselves awake, and are asleep;

So softly death succeeded life in her,

She did but dream of Heaven, and she was there. No pains she suffered, nor expired with noise; Her soul was whispered out with God's still voice. John Dryden

THE

CXXXI

MAGDALEN'S HYMN

During the Plague

HE air of death breathes through our souls,
The dead all round us lie;

By day and night the death-bell tolls,

And says, "Prepare to die."

The face that, in the morning sun,
We thought so wondrous fair,
Hath faded, ere his course was run,
Beneath its golden hair.

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 brightening from the tomb.

We know who sends the visions bright,
From whose dear side they came! —
We veil our eyes before Thy 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 vanished years
In the glory yet to come;
O idle grief! O foolish tears!
When Jesus calls us home.

Like children for some bauble fair

That weep themselves to rest;
We part with life-awake! and there
The jewel in our breast.

Prof. Wilson

CXXXII

HOPE IN DEATH

MY life's a shade, my days to death decline;

My Lord is Life, He'll raise
My dust again, e'en mine.

Sweet truth to me!

I shall arise,

And with these eyes
My Saviour see.

My peaceful grave shall keep
My bones till that sweet day;
I wake from my long sleep
And leave my bed of clay.
Sweet truth to me!

I shall arise,

And with these eyes

My Saviour see.

My Lord His angels shall
Their golden trumpets sound,
At whose most welcome call
My grave shall be unbound.

Sweet truth to me!

I shall arise,

And with these eyes
My Saviour see.

I said sometimes with tears,

Ah me! I'm loath to die!