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I would not live alway; no, welcome the tomb Since Jesus hath lain there, I dread not its gloom.

2 Who, who would live alway, away from his God? Away from yon heaven, that blissful abode, Where the rivers of pleasure flow o'er the bright plains, And the noontide of glory eternally reigns:

3 Where the saints of all ages in harmony meet, Their Saviour and brethren transported to greet, While the anthems of rapture unceasingly roll, And the smile of the Lord is the life of the soul.

150. Death of a Child. C. M. Dundee. 1 T is Jesus speaks! I fold, says he, These lambs within my breast; Protection they shall find in me, In me be ever blessed.

2 Death may the bands of life unloose,
But can’t dissolve my love;
Millions of infant souls compose
The family above.

3 Their feeble frames my power shall raise,
And mould with heavenly skill;
I’ll give them tongues to sing my praise,
And hands to do my will.

4 His words the happy parents hear,
And shout with joy divine,
“O Saviour ! all we have and are
Shall be forever thine.”

151, 152. DEATH OF A FELLow PUPIL.

151. Death of a Pious Child. S. M.

1 WHEN sickness, pain, and death
Come o'er a godly child,
How sweetly then departs the breath !
The dying pang how mild!

2 It gently sinks to rest,
As once it used to do
Upon its mother's tender breast,
And as securely too.

3 The spirit is not dead,
Though low the body lies;
But, freed from sin and sorrow, fled
To dwell beyond the skies.

4 That death is but a sleep
Beneath a Saviour's care;
And he will surely, safely keep
The body resting there.

152. Death of a Fellow Pupil. C. M.

1 DEATH has been here, and borne away
A brother from our side,-
Just in the morning of his day,
As young as we, he died.

2 Not long ago, he filled his place,
And sat with us to learn;
But he has run his mortal race,
And never can return.


3 Perhaps our time may be as short,
Our days may fly as fast;
O Lord, impress the solemn thought,
That this may be our last!

4 All needful strength is thine to give ;
To thee our souls apply
For grace to teach us how to live,
And make us fit to die.

153. Death of a Mother. L. M. Wells. 1 THE bosom where I oft have lain, And slept my infant hours away, Will never beat for me again; For it lies dead, and wrapt in clay.

2 How many were the silent prayers - My mother offered up for me ! How many were the bitter cares She felt, when none but God could see.

3 Now she is gone, and high in heaven
She sings his praise, who died for her;
And to her hand a harp is given,
And she's a heavenly worshipper.

4 O let me think of all she said,
And all the kind advice she gave ;
And let me keep it now she's dead,
And sleeping in her lowly grave.

5 And let me choose the path she chose,
And her I soon again may see,
Beyond this world of sin and woes,
With Jesus in eternity.


154. The Grave. H. M.
1 THERE is a grassy bed,
A cold and gloomy cell,
In which some youthful head,
Reclined, will surely dwell,
Before another pleasant spring
The first young violets shall bring !

2 O if, on yonder side,
A hand of dazzling flame
Should bid the heavens divide,
And write that young one's name,
His knees would shake, his blood run cold,
Like the Chaldean king of old.

3 With earnest hope and fear,
For pardon he 'd implore, -
And spend this hasty year
As he spent none before;
To Jesus Christ his soul would cling,
As the one only needful thing.

4 Well, let the name be mine,
(As possibly it may,)
Great Saviour, now incline
This thoughtless heart to pray;
Help me to choose the better part;
Help me to give thee all my heart.

5 Then though the grassy bed,
The cold and gloomy cell,
Should bear my youthful head,
For me it will be well;
Yes, better far than dwelling here,
Away from home another year.

Dr RGE, 155, 156.

155. Funeral Hymn. L. M. Stonefield. Watts. ." 1 UNveil, thy bosom, faithful tomb Take this new treasure to thy trust, And give these sacred relics room, To slumber in thy silent dust.

2 Nor pain, nor grief, nor anxious fear
Invades thy bounds; no mortal woes
Can reach the peaceful sleeper here,
While angels watch his soft repose.

3 Thus Jesus slept; God's dying Son Passed through the grave, and blessed the bed :

Then rest, dear saint, till from his throne
The morning break, and pierce the shade.

4 Break from his throne, illustrious morn!
Attend, O earth, his sovereign word!
Restore thy trust,--a glorious form
Shall then arise to meet the Lord.

156. Dirge. 12's & 11's M. Scotland. Heber. 1 Thou art gone to the grave! but we will not deplore thee, Though sorrow 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.

2 Thou art gone to the grave! we no longer behold thee, Nor tread the rough paths of the world by thy side;

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