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Wherefore then the choral hymn,

Floating on the wavy air-
Why hath ope'd the marble tomb ?

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;
Not to pluck garlands from the foe,

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;
The sainted, the immortal band,

Forever Freedom's boast,-
On Recollection's mount they stand,

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;
To tell of these whom grief hath bowed,

Who bled as they have bled;
In the light of every lofty deed,

Their shadows rise to view; They come from trophied tombs to plead

For thesethe 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 :
Stretch out the strong, the succouring arm

For these, the faithful Brave ;
The weary-worntheir passage calm

Down to the peaceful grave !

REV. JOHN SUMMERFIELD.

I saw the Evangelist of God ascend
The holy place. He stood in the beauty
Of meekness.—He spake, and on my heart
Fell accents glowing with the prophet's fire.
I heard thee, mighty one! and was afraid,
Yea, trembling, listened ; for methought no voice
Of mortal mould could thrill my bosom thus.
0, sweet as angel's music were the tones
That breathed their gilead on the wounded heart;
Strengthened the weary,-bade the broken come
To Siloa's fountain and in faith be whole.
I wept o’er blighted hopes—but thou didst draw,
A willing captive, my admiring soul
With thee, to brighter regions, where the dream
Of glad fruition lives, nor is unreal.
I feared Death—but thou didst deck the foe
In lovely garb; with softest beauty clad,
I saw him beckoning to the narrow house
Of rest, where spicy odours balm the air,
And resurrection's halo crowns the dead.
God called thee, favoured one! Thy diadem
Is wreathed of gentleness, and thick bestrown
With pearls of nature's forming—they are tears,
Yea, tears of rapture, holy, and untold.

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!

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