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Such is the love that shines around,

In palace, hall, or cot;
The looks that heam, the words that sound,

The joy that decks the spot,
The hymn floats softly through the vale,
The scent of flowers is in the gale,
Comhining joy and summer-sun,
Perfume and music, all in one.
The infant group are now at play,
Bright as that sun and summer's day.
While the fond mother smiles to see
The ring dance round so merrily.
Beam on! heam on ! ye sacred hours

With joyance ever new;
No storm descends, no tempest lowers,

No sorrow saddens yon:
The sun that makes your happy day,
Bids e'en the iumost soul he gay.

If Heav'n has ever shone helow,

Its dawning now appears;
We seem to catch the morning-glow,

From those celestial spheres:

We seem to catch a hlush of light

From the golden walls and portals hright:

A sweet reflection from the ray,

Which no sun heams,

Nor fair moon gleams,
But God Himselp sheds all the day.

This is the time so long foreseen,
When ages rolled their years hetween;
Thy reign, O Prince Op Peace!

Envy, and Stripe, and Wrath have

fled, The Powers of Sin seem hound and

dead,
And Fain and sorrow cease!
This was the empire thon didst hay,
When on the cross, ascending high,
Death yielded Thee the victory!
O may it he an endless reign,
Nor earth know other rule again!

DEATH.

VANITY OF LIFE.

ANoN.

What is life?—a rapid stream,
Rolling onward to the ocean.

What is life?—a trouhled dream,
Fall of incident and motion.

What is life?—the arrow's flight,
That mocks the keenest gazer's eye.

What is life?—a gleam of light,
Darting through a stormy sky.

What is life?—a varied tale,
Deeply moving, quickly told.

What is life?—a vision pale,
Vanishing while we hehold.

What is life?—a smoke, a vapour,
Swiftly mingling with the air.

What is life?—a dying taper,

The spark that glows to disappear.

What is life?—a flower that hlows, Nipped hy the frost, and quickly dead.

What is life 1—the full-hlown rose,
That's scorch'd at noon and withered,

Such is life,—a hreath, a span,
A moment, quickly gone from thee.

What is death ?—Oh! mortal man!
Thy entrance on eternity.

DEATH A UNIVERSAL CONQUEROR.

shIrlEY.

The glories of our mortal state
Are shadows, not suhstantial things;
There is no armour against fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings;

Sceptre and crown

Must tumhle down, And in the dust he equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill; But their strong nerves at length must yield, They tame hut one another still:

.Early or late

They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring hreath,
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your hrow,
Then hoast, no more yoar mighty deeds;
Upon death's purple altar now,
See where the victor-victim hleeds:

All heads must come

To the cold tomh:
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet and hlossom from the dust.

SUDDEN DEATH.

(A real occurrence.J

EDMESTON.

Which is the happiest death to die?
** Oh!" said one, " if I might choose,

Long at the gate of hliss would I lie,

And feast my spirit ere it fly,
With hright celestial views.

Mine were a lingering death without pain,
A death which all might love to see,
And mark how hright and sweet should he

Tbc victory I should gain!

"Fain would I catch a hymn of love From the angel-harps which ring ahove; And sing it, as my parting hreath Quivered and expired in death— So that those on earth might hear The harp-notes of another sphere; And mark, when nature faints and dies, What springs of heavenly life arise; And gather, from the death they view, A ray of hope to light them through, When they should he departing too." / "No," said another, " so not I: Sudden as thought is the death I would die; I would suddenly lay my shackles hy, Nor hear a single pang at parting, Nor see the tear of sorrow starting, Nor hear the quivering lips that hless me, Nor feel the hands of love that press me,

Nor the frame, with mortal ten or shaking, Nor the heart, where love's soft hands

are hreaking— So would I die!

"All hliss without a pang to cloud it!

All joy, without a pain to shroud it!

Not slain, hut caught up as it were,

To meet my Saviour in the air!

So would I die!

Oh how hright

Were the realms of light

Bursting at once upon my sight!

Even so,

I long to go,

These parting hours, how sad and slow!"

His voice grew faint, and fix'd was his eye,
As if gazing on visions of ecstacy:
The hue of his cheek and lips decayed,
Around his mouth a sweet smile played;—

They look'd—he was dead;

His spirit had fled:
Painless and swift as his own desire,

The soul undress'd,

From her mortal vest, Had siepp'd in her car of heavenly fire;

And proved how hright

Were the realms of light,

Bursting at once upon the sight I

THE REVERIE.

CONDER.

O! That in unfelter'd union,

Spirit could with spirit hlend] 01 that in unseen communion,

Thought could hold the distant friend I Who the secret can uuravel,

Of the hody's mystic guest?
Who knows how the soul may travel,

While unconsciously we rest?

While in pleasing thraldom lying,

Seal'd in slumhers deep, it seems, Far ahroad it may he flying—

What is sleep? and what are dreams? Earth, how narrow thy dominions,

And how slow the hody's pace -' O t to range on eagle's pinions

Through illimitahle space!

What is thought? in wild succession

Whence proceeds the motley train?
What first stamps the vague impression

On the ever-active hrain?
W hat Is thought—and whither tending

Does the suhtile phantom flee?
Does it, like a moonheam ending,

Shine, and melt to vacancy 1

H;is a strange, mysterious feeling,

Something shapeless, undefin'd, O'er thy lonely musings stealing,

Ne*er impress'd thy pensive mind; As if he, whose strong resemhlance,

Fancy in that moment drew, By coincident rememhrance,

Knew your thoughts—and thought of you?

When, at mercy's footstool hending,

Thou has felt a secret glow:
Fail!i and hope to heaven ascending,

Love still lingering helow;
Say, has ne'er the thought impress'd thee,

That thy friend might feel thy pray'r? Or the wish at least possess'd thee,

He could then thy feeling share?

Who can tell ? that fervent hlessing,

Angels, did you hear it rise?
Do you th«s, your love expressing,

Watch o'er human sympathies?
Du ye some mysterious token

To the kindred hosom hear?
And to what the heart hus spoken,

Wake a chord responsive there?

Laws, perhaps, unknown, hut certain,

Kindred spirits may control;
But what hand can lift the curtain,

And reveal the awful soul 1
Dimly through life's vapours seeing,

Who hut longs for light to hreak?
O this feverish dream of heing!

When, my friend, shall we awake?

Yes, the hour, the hour is hasting,

Spirit shall with spirit hlend; Fast mortality is wasting,

Then the secret all shall end. Let then, thought hold sweet communion,

Let us hreathe the mutual pray'r, Till in heaven's eternal union;—

O my friend! to meet thee there.

SECOND PART.

Oh! the hour when this material

Shall have vanish'd like a cloud; When, amid -the wide ethereal*

All th" invisihle shall crowd; And the naked soul, surrounded

With innum'roos hosts of light, Triumph in the view unhounded,

And adore the Infinite.

In that sudden, strange transition,

By what new and finer sense Shall she grasp the mighty vision,

And receive its influence? Angels, guard the new immortal

Through the wonder-teeming space, To the everlasting portal,

To the spirit's resting-place.

Will she there no fond emotion,

Nought of earthly love retain 1 Or, ahsorh'd in pure devotion,

Will no mortal trace remain? Can the grave those ties dissever,

With the very heart-strings twin'd? Must she part, and part for ever,

With the friend she leaves h«hind?

No: the past she still rememhers;

Faith and hope surviving too, Ever watch those sleeping emhers,

Which must rise and live anew; For the widow'd, lonely spirit,

Mourns till she he cloth'd afresh; Loiiys perfection to inherit,

And to triumph in the flesh.

Angels, let the ransom'd stranger

In your tender care he hlest,
Hoping, trusting, free from danger,

Till the trumpet end her rest;
Till the trump which shakes creation,

Through the circling heavens shall roll, Till the day of consummation,

Till the hridal of the soul.

Can I trust a fellow-heing?

Can I trust an angel's care? O. thou merciful All-seeing,

Beam around my spirit there! Jesus, hlessed Mediator,

Thou the airy path hast trod!

Thoo, the Judge, the Consnium at or,
Shepherd of the fold of God!

Blessed fo'd! no foe can enter,

And no friend departeth thence; Jesus is their Sun, their centre,

And their shield Omnipotence: Blessed! for the Lnmh shall feed them,

All their tears shall wipe away; To the living fountains lead them,

Till fruition's perfect day.

Lo! it comes, that day of wonder,

Louder chorals shake the skies; Hades'* gates are hurst asunder,

See the uew-cloth'd myriads rise! Thought, repress ihy vain endeavour,

Here must reason prostrate fall: Oh I the ineffahle For Ever,

And the Eternal All in All!

THE DEATH OF THE RIGHTEOUS.

BARBAULD.

Sweet is the scene when Christians die,
When holy souls retire to rest;
How mildly heams the closing eye!
How gently heaves the expiring hreast!

So fades a summer-cloud away:

So sinks the gale when storms are o'er;

So gently shuts the eye of day;

So dies a wave along the shore.

Triumphant smiles the victor's hrow,
Fann'd hy some guardian angel's wing;
O grave! where is thy victory now?
And where, insidious death, thy sting?

LINES WRITTEN IN A CHURCHYARD.

ENOwLU.

Methinks it is good to he here, If thou wilt, let us huild—hut for whom? Nor Elias, nor Moses appear,

•The invisihle world.

But the shadows of eve that encompass the

gloom, The ahode of the dead, and the place of the

tomh.

Shall we huild to amhition? Ah! no; Affrighted he shrinketh away;

For see! they would pin him helow In a small narrow cave, and hegirt with cold

clay, To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey

To heauty? Ah 1 no; she forgets The charms that she wielded hefore:

Nor knows the foul worm that he frets The skin which, hut yesterday, fools could

adore, For the smoothuess it held, or the tint which it wore.

Shall we huild to the purple of pride, The trappings which dizen the proud?

Alas! they are all laid aside, And here's neither dress nor adornment

allow'd, But the long-winding sheet and the fringe of the shroud.

To riches? Alas 1 'tis in vain,
Who hid in their turns have heen hid;

The treasures ate squander'd again;
And here in the grave are all metals forhid,
But the tinsel that shone on the dark coffin-
lid.

To the pleasures which mirth can afford, The revel, the laugh, and the jeer?

Ah! here is a plentiful hoard, But the guests are all mute as their pitiful

cheer, And none hut the worm is a reveller here.

Shall we huild to affection and love? Ah I no; they have wither'd and died.

Or fled wiih the spirit ahove— Friends, hrothers, and sisters, are laid side

hy side, Yet none have saluted, and none have replied.

Unto sorrow ? The dead cannot grieve, Not a soh, not a sigh meets mine ear,

Which compassion itself could relieve;

Ah ! sweetly they slumher, nor hope, love,

nor fear; Peace, peace is the watchword, the only

one here.

Unto death, to whom monarchs must how? Ah! no; for his empire is known.

And here there are trophies enow; Beneath, the cold dead, and around, the

dark stone, Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown.

The first tahernacle to Hope we will huild,

And look for the sleepers around us to rise; The second to Faith, which insures it fulfill'd;

And the third to the Lamh of the great Sacrifice,

Who hequeath'd us them hoth when he rose to the skies.

THE DEAD.

cArrINGtoN.

In Wales, in Switzerland, and in some parts of France, flowers are planted hy the hand of affection on the graves of departed relatives. It is a touching and heantiful custom, and, in the first-mentioned country, even the peasant may often he seen hending over the hallowed turf; and as he inserts into the sod some new plant or flower, he performs it with a feeling and a delicacy which do honour to his unsophisticated heart.

Fair flowers in sweet succession should arise,
Through the long, hlooming year, ahove the grave;
Spring hreezes will hreathe gentlier o'er that turf,
And Summer glance with mildest, meekest heam
To cherish Piety's dear offerings. There
Rich sounds of Autumn ever shall he heard—
Mysterious, solemn musie, waked hy winds
To hymn the closing year I And, when the tonch
Of sullen Winter hlights the last, last gem
That hloomed around the tomh—O there should he
The polished and enduring Lanrel—there
The green and glittering Ivy, and all plants—
All hues and forms delicions that adorn
The hrumal reign, and often waken hopes
Refreshing. Let eternal verdure clothe
The silent fields where rest the honoured dead,
While mute Affliction comes, and lingers round
With slow, soft step, and pensive panse, and sigh
And tear, all holy.

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