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'Tis well—'tis more- --'tis nobly done ;

Thy recompense, by far
I'd choose, than jewelled sceptre won

By emperor or czar,
Yet, angel, or whate'er thou art,

Thy gaze turn thou on him,
For whom this world hath little part,

Whose hope beyond, is dim.
For fell remorse is his, and fast

The serpent hath him bound; With gripe of death, its folds are cast

His inmost soul around.

He bathed his boyhood in the cup,

In poison quenched his prime; Its fires have drunk existence up,

And now he “bides his time.”
There are fond ones to share his wo,

He will not sink alone;
His spirit's lease is linked unto

Jehovah's moveless throne.
And him-eternity's proud heir-

Shouldst thou, for aye, pass by,
And leave in all his still despair

A castaway, to die?
O strive till longer that dark way

He will not, cannot tread ;
But walks forth into cheerful day,

The living from the dead.

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We saw thee in thy gladness,

When peace sat on thy brow; The solacer of sadness,

The faithful friend wast thou. To thee, in bounteous measure,

The things below, to love, Were given, and yet thy treasure

Was fondly laid above.

We saw thee test the power

Of confidence divine;
To charm life's chequered hour

With gentleness, was thine.
And still, 'twas thy endeavour

To take the lowly seat, And sit with Mary, ever

At thy Redeemer's feet.

We stood where thou wert lying

In suffering, and so deep That holy calm, that dying

Was seemingly to sleep, To sleep? Oh no! the portal

Thus gently rent awayThou unto life immortal

Wokest then in perfect day,

We knew that while were glooming

O'er thee, the shades of night,

Thou sawost in vision blooming;

The fields of living light. We deemed-so sweetly given

Was thine to cheer the heart, • Farewell! we meet in heaven'

'Twas little pain to part. The grave hath closed around thee,

And hidden what was fair; But yesterday, upon thee

We wept, and left thee there. Left! No! the grave holds never

What we have loved in thee, The spirit that forever

Searcheth eternity. Farewell! farewell! in glory,

-With thee for aye begunIf thought of earth’s brief story

Yet lingers, blessed oneIs't not the sometime glancing,

The watch at gates of gold, That these in bliss entrancing,

Thy loved, thou may'st behold?


Pity the Blind!-what is his lot

Whose all of life's a wasting dreamTo whom the pleasant earth's a blot,

To whom the skies a mockery seem. Whose eye in gladness never met

In infancy, a mother's eye;
Nor mother's smile that none forget-

Nor mother's tear, when ills were nigh. Pity the Blind!—who, not without

Some vision of a world of bliss, Is in his secret grief shut out

From all the kindly joys of this. Who ne'er above, may trace the hand

That curtained out that starry hall, Nor mark below, on sea and land,

The skill that formed and fosters all.

Joy for the Blind! for unto him

Has knowledge her pure ray revealed; And intellect, that long lay dim,

To life and light is now unsealed. And cheerfully his gladdened eye

Looks o'er the broad expanse afar; The uncertain hope that vexed his sky

Has trembled out a lovely star. Joy for the Blind!—the favoured Blind!

Who revels in discovered store, And gazes with the eyes of mind

On beauty dimly known before. O Thou, that once did'st chase the night

From the blind men that cried to thee, Here art thou loftier in thy might,

For mind and soul are bid to see.


I've worshipped where the mighty kneel

Before the Mightiest in prayer; And with the noble organ's peal

My mingling hymn has risen there.

I've met where “two or three” have met

Before the throne in tears to lie; Nor would my soul that hour forget,

When in communion God passed by.

Yet higher privilege for me,

I covet not to be revealed, Than a glad worshipper to be

Where children have in beauty kneeled.

To mingle mine with their pure prayers

When they like infant cherubs bend: To join my voice and heart with theirs

In anthems to our heavenly friend.

That melody! it knows not art,

That simple prayer! I feel 'tis true; In Jesus, children have a part,

'Tis theirs to love and worship too.

And there, before the eternal throne,

Censers to such dear ones are given; Their lisping harps of silver tone

Ring sweetest ’mid the choirs of heaven.

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