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From the burden of the flesh,

And from care and sin releas'd, Where the wicked cease from troubling,

And the weary are at rest.

The toilsome way thou'st travelld o'er,

And borne the heavy load;
But Christ hath taught thy languid feet

To reach His blest abode;
Thou'rt sleeping now, like Lazarus,

Upon his Father's breast,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,

And the weary are at rest.

Sin can never taint thee now,

Nor doubt thy faith assail,
Nor thy meek trust in Jesus Christ

And the Holy Spirit fail ;
And there thou’rt sure to meet the good,

Whom on earth thou lovedst best, Where the wicked cease from troubling,

And the weary are at rest.

“ Earth to earth," and "dust to dust,”

The solemn Priest hath said ;
So we lay the turf above thee now,

And we seal thy narrow bed :
But thy spirit, brother, soars away

Among the faithful blest, Where the wicked cease from troubling,

And the weary are at rest.

And when the Lord shall summon us

Whom thou hast left behind,
May we, untainted by the world,

As sure a welcome find;
May each, like thee, depart in peace,

To be a glorious guest,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.

H. H. Milman

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Receive him, earth, unto thine harbouring shrine ;

In thy soft tranquil bosom let him rest; These limbs of man I to thy care consign,

And trust the noble fragments to thy breast.

This house was once the mansion of a soul

Brought into life by its Creator's breath; Wisdom did once this living mass control; And Christ was there enshrined, who conquers


Cover this body to thy care consign'd;

Its Maker shall not leave it in the grave; But His own lineaments shall bear in mind, And shall recall the image which He gave.

I. Williams, from Prudentius

O miserable man,
Who hath all the world to friend,
Yet dares not in prosperity
Remember his latter end !

But happy man, whate'er

His earthly lot may be,
Who looks on death as the angel

That shall set his spirit free,
And bear it to his heritage
Of immortality.

R. Southey



The gathering of the Dead The day is cloudy; it should be so: And the clouds in flocks to the eastward go; For the world may not see the glory there, Where Christ and His Saints are met in the air. There is a stir among all things round, Like the shock of an earthquake underground, And there is music in the motion, As soft and deep as a summer ocean. All things that sleep awake to-day,

For the cross and the crown are won,

The winds of spring

Sweet songs may bring
Through the half-unfolded leaves of May ;

But the breeze of spring

Hath no such thing
As the musical sounds that run
Where the anthem note by God is given,

And the martyrs sing,

And the angels ring
With the cymbals of highest Heaven.
In Heaven above, and on earth beneath,

In the holy place where dead men sleep, In the silent sepulchres of death,

Where angels over the bodies keep
Their cheerful watch till the second breath

Into the Christian dust shall creep-
In heights, and depths, and darkest caves,
In the unlit green of the ocean waves-
In fields where battles have been fought,
Dungeons where murders have been wrought
The shock and the thrill of life have run:
The reign of the Holy is begun !
There is labour and unquietness
In the very sands of the wilderness,

In the place where rivers ran.
Where the simoon blast hath fiercely past

O’er the midnight caravan.
From sea to sea, from shore to shore,
Earth travails with her dead once more.
In one long, endless, filing crowd,

Apostles, Martyrs, Saints have gone,
Where behind yon screen of cloud

The Master is upon His throne !

Only we are left alone!
Left in this waste and desert place,

Far from our natural home;
Left to complete our weary race

Until His kingdom come.
O, my God! that we could be
Among that shining company !
But once a year with solemn hand

The Church withdraws the veil,
And there we see that other land,

Far in the distance pale.
While good church bells are loudly ringing

All on the earth below,
And white-robed choirs with angels singing,

Where stately organs blow :
And up and down each holy street
Faith hears the tread of viewless feet,
Such as in Salem walk'd, when He
Had gotten Himself the victory.
So be it ever year by year,
Until the Judge himself be here!

F. W. Faber

If Heavenly flowers might bloom unharm’d on

And gales of Eden still their balm bestow,
Thy gentle virtues rich in purest worth,
Might yet have lingerd in our vale below;

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