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BENEATH our feet and o'er our kead
Is equal warning given ;

Beneath us lie the countless dead,
Above us is the heaven.

Their names are graven on the stone,
Their bones are in the clay;

And ere another day is done,
Ourselves may be as they.

Death rides on every passing breeze,
He lurks in every flower;

Each season has its own disease,
Its peril every hour.

Our eyes have seen the rosy light
Of youth's soft cheek decay,

And Fate descend in sudden night
On manhood’s middle day.

Our eyes have seen the steps of age Halt feebly towards the tomb,

And yet shall earth our hearts engage, And dreams of days to come

Turn, mortal, turn! thy danger know ;
Where'er thy foot can tread

The earth rings hollow from below,
And warns thee of her dead.

Turn, Christian, turn! thy soul apply
To truths divinely given;

The bones that underneath thee lie
Shall live for hell or heaven.


THou art gone to the grave; but we will not deplore thee,

Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb :

Thy Saviour has passed through its portal 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 paths of the world by thy side; But the wide arms of mercy are spread to enfold thee, And sinners may die, for the SINLEss has died.

Thou art gone to the grave; and, its mansion forsaking,

Perchance thy weak spirit in fear lingered long;

But the mild rays of paradise beamed on thy waking,

And the sound which thou heard'st was the seraphim's song.

Thou art gone to the grave; but we will not deplore thee,

Whose God was thy ransom, thy guardian and guide ;

He gave thee, he took thee, and he will restore thee,

And death has nosting,for the Saviour has died.”

* The following stanzas were written as an addition to the above hymn, by an English clergyman, on hearing of the decease of the author.

Thou art gone to the grave; and whole nations bemoan thee,

Who caught from thy lips the glad tidings of peace : Yet grateful, they still in their hearts shall enthrone thee, And ne'er shall thy name from their memories cease.

Thou art gone to the grave; but thy work shall not perish, That work which the spirit of wisdom hath blest; His strength shall sustain it, his comforts shall cherish, And make it to prosper, though thou art at rest.

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O, Saviour of the faithful dead,
With whom thy servants dwell,

Though cold and green the turf is spread
Above their narrow cell,—

No more we cling to mortal clay,
We doubt and fear no more,

Nor shrink to tread the darksome way
Which thou hast trod before.

'Twas hard from those I loved to go,
Who knelt around my bed,

Whose tears bedeved my burning brow,
Whose arms upheld my head.

As fading from my dizzy view,
I sought their forms in vain,

The bitterness of death I knew,
And groaned to live again.

'Twas dreadful, when th’ accuser's power
Assailed my sinking heart,

Recounting every wasted hour,
And each unworthy part:

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