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VENI CREATOR. CREATOR Spirit, by whose aid The world's foundations first were laid, Come, visit ev'ry pious mind; Come, pour Thy joys on human kind; From sin and sorrow set us free, And make Thy temples worthy Thee. O Source of uncreated light, The Father's promis'd Paraclete! Thrice-holy fount, thrice-holy fire, Our hearts with heav'nly love inspire ; Come, and Thy sacred unction bring, To sanctify us while we sing. Plenteous of grace, descend from high, Rich in Thy sevenfold energy! Thou strength of His almighty hand, Whose pow'r does heav'n and earth command. Proceeding Spirit, our defence, Who dost the gift of tongues dispense, And crown’st Thy gift with eloquence; Refine and purge our earthly parts ; But, oh, inflame and fire our hearts ! Our frailties help, our vice control, Submit the senses to the soul; And when rebellious they are grown, Then lay Thine hand, and hold them down. Chase from our minds the infernal foe, And peace,

the fruit of love, bestow;

DEPARTED SAINTS.

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And, lest our feet should step astray,
Protect and guide us in the way.
Make us eternal truths receive,
And practise all that we believe;
Give us Thyself, that we may see
The Father and the Son by Thee.
Immortal honour, endless fame,
Attend the Almighty Father's Name ;
The Saviour Son be glorified,
Who for lost man's redemption died;
And equal adoration be,
Eternal Paraclete, to Thee !

DRYDEN.

FROM THE FUNERAL SERVICE. Man that is born of woman, short his time, And full of woe! he springeth like a flower, Or like the grass, that, green at morning prime, Is cut and withereth ere the evening hour; Never doth he continue in one stay, But like a shadow doth he pass away. Yet not for ever, O Lord God most high! Saviour! yet not for ever shall we die !

SOUTHEY.

CONTEMPLATION OF DEPARTED SAINTS. They are all gone into a world of light,

And I alone sit lingering here;

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Their very memory is fair and bright,

And my sad thoughts doth clear.
It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,

Like stars upon some gloomy grove,
Or those faint beams with which yon hill is drest

After the sun's remove.
I see them walking in an air of glory,

Whose light doth trample on my days ;
My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,

Mere glimmerings and decays.
Dear beauteous death, the jewel of the just,

Shining no where but in the dark ;
What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,

Could man outlook that mark !

H. VAUGHAN.

THE DEAD,
NAME them not dead—the faithful whom

Green earth closed lately o'er ;
Nor search within the silent tomb

For those who “ die no more."
The cold earth hides them from our love,
But not from His who pleads above.
They passed, as all must pass, the deep

Dread portals of the grave;
But not in dull decay they sleep

Whom Jesus died to save.

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To mortal eye their path is dim ;
But 'tis enough—they rest in Him.
We saw the momentary cloud,

The pale eclipse of mind,
From earthly sight that came to shroud

The deathless ray behind :
A moment more, the shade is gone,
The sun, the spirit, burneth on.
To die! 'tis but to pass, all free,

From Death's dominion here,-
To burst the bonds of earth, and flee

From every mortal fear,
To plunge within that gulf untried,
And stand beyond it glorified.
Thou weep'st-perchance they weep for thee,

If heavenly tear can flow,
To think of all the ills that be

In this sad world below.
Oh! not for all its climes contain
Would they return to earth again.
Yet weep, for earth's a vale of care,

And they who mourn are blest,
If He who hears the mourner's prayer

Send comfort to the breast :
If hallowed hope break through the gloom,
Earth hath no teacher like the tomb.

IRISH PAPER.

SONNET.

RISE, said the Master ; come unto the feast :-
She heard the call, and rose with willing feet;
But thinking it not otherwise than meet
For such a bidding to put on her best,
She is gone from us for a few short hours
Into her bridal-closet, there to wait
For the unfolding of the palace-gate,
That gives her entrance to the blissful bowers.
We have not seen her yet, though we have been
Full often to her chamber-door, and oft
Have listened underneath the postern green,
And laid fresh flowers, and whispered short and

soft;

But she hath made no answer, and the day
From the clear west is fading fast away.

ALFORD

finis.

LONDON:
PRINTED BY LEVEY, ROBSON, AND FRANKLYN

Great New Street, Fetter Lane.

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