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Wherefore then the choral hymn,
Floating on the wavy air-
Jesus sleeps no longer there !
He hath risen !-crushed his power
Lo, in dust the arch-fiend lies; He hath risen !-glorious hour!
We who sleep in him shall rise ; Welcome death! each sorrow closing,
Now thy features smiles do wear ; Welcome grave! to flesh reposing,
JESUS is the victor there.
WHY SHOULD WE SIGH.
Why should we sigh when Fancy's dream,
The ray that shone 'mid youthful tears, Departing, leaves no kindly gleam,
To cheer the lonely waste of years ? Why should we sigh ?-The fairy charm
That bound each sense in folly's chain Is broke, and Reason, clear and calm,
Resumes her holy rights again.
Why should we sigh that earth no more
Claims the devotion once approved ? That joys endeared, with us are o'er,
And gone are those these hearts have loved ?
Why should we sigh ?-Unfading bliss
Survives the narrow grasp of time; And those that asked our tears in this,
Shall render smiles in yonder clime.
WARRIORS OF THE REVOLUTION.
MARK ye the men of other days!
The true, the tried of yore, Even now they come on Fancy's gaze,
As in might they came before ; They come-aye, 'tis a gallant show,
These died not for a name;
Or trumpet-songs from fame.
In proud array their ranks again
Start from the heaving sod, They marshal on the embattled plain,
Their warrior feet once trod;
Forever Freedom's boast,-
A glorious, god-like host.
Clothed in the perils of that day,
And wounds no longer dumb, With honours torn from deadly fray,
The ghosts—they come! they come!
Each phantom-finger points afar
To many a blood-dyed field ; Behold their wounds! in every scar
Behold a nation's shield !
They come, exalted from the crowd
Of all the ignoble dead;
Who bled as they have bled;
Their shadows rise to view; They come from trophied tombs to plead
For these—the lingering few.
The breeze that waves their withered hairs
Is stirred not with their breath; Voiceless—yet deep that speech, for theirs
Is eloquence of death :
For these, the faithful Brave ;
Down to the peaceful grave !
REV. JOHN SUMMERFIELD.
I saw the Evangelist of God ascend
WHEN DEATH SHALL LAY,
WHEN death shall lay this bosom low,
And every murmur hush to sleep, When those that give affection now,
Shall o’er affection's memory weep
I would not, when life's spark has flown,
That strangers should receive the sigh ; I would not that a hand unknown,
Should, reckless, close the slumbering eye;
But, on some throbbing breast reclined,
That beat alone to love and me; Each parting pang subdued, how kind,
How peaceful would my exit be!
I would not that this lowly head
Should pillow, cold, on foreign clay : I would not that my grassy bed
Should be from home and love away :
But, in my native village ground,
Near kindred dust, these relics laid : How calm my slumbers, how profound,
Beneath the old tree's sombre shade!