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Nor pain, nor grief, nor anxious fear,
TO THE MEMORY OF ANNIE, WHO DIED AT MILAN, While angels watch the soft repose.
JUNE 6, 1860. "Jesus saith unto her, Woman, why weepest thou? whom seck.
est thou? She, supposing him to be the gardener, saith unto hia, So Jesus slept; God's dying Son
Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid Passed through the grave, and blest the bed : hin.” — JOHN XX. 15. Rest here, blest saint, till from his throne In the fair gardens of celestial peace The morning break, and pierce the shade.
Walketh a gardener in meekness clad ;
Fair are the flowers that wreathe his dewy locks, Break from his throne, illustrious morn ;
And his mysterious eyes are sweet and sad. Attend, O earth, his sovereign word ; Restore thy trust; a glorious form
Fair are the silent foldings of his robes, Shall then arise to meet the Lord.
Falling with saintly calmness to his feet; DR. ISAAC WATTS.
And when he walks, each floweret to his will
With living pulse of sweet accord doth beat.
“Two hands to work addrest
Aye for his praise ;
Walking his ways;
MY MOTHER'S BIBLE.
This book is all that's left me now,
Tears will unbidden start,
I press it to my heart.
Here is our family tree ;
She, dying, gave it me.
Whose names these records bear ;
After the evening prayer,
In tones my heart would thrill !
Here are they living still !
To brothers, sisters, dear;
Who loved God's word to hear !
What thronging memories come!
Within the halls of home!
Thy constancy I've tried ;
My counsellor and guide.
That could this volume buy;
It taught me how to die !
The night is late, the house is still ;
My listening heart takes up the strain,
His will be done, His will be done !
GEORGE P. MORRIS.
For Charlie's sake I will arise ;
JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER
I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase which calls
The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just; It consecrates each grave within its walls,
And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust. God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts
Comfort to those who in the grave have sown The seed that they had garnered in their hearts,
Their bread of life, alas ! no more their own. Into its furrows shall we all be cast,
In the sure faith that we shall rise again At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain. Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,
In the fair gardens of that second birth ; And each bright blossom mingle its perfume With that of flowers which never bloomed on
UNDER THE CROSS.
I CANNOT, cannot say, Out of my bruised and breaking heart, Storm-driven along a thorn-set way,
While blood-drops start From every pore, as I drag on,
" Thy will, O God, be done !"
SOFTLY W00 AWAY HER BREATH.
SOFTLY woo away her breath,
Gentle death !
Tender, mournful, murmuring life ! She hath seen her happy day,
She hath had her bud and blossom ; Now she pales and shrinks away,
Earth, into thy gentle bosom !
OVER the river they beckon to me,
Loved ones who've crossed to the farther side, The gleam of their snowy robes I see,
But their voices are lost in the dashing tide. There's one with ringlets of sunny gold,
And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue ; He crossed in the twilight gray and cold,
And the pale mist hid him from mortal view. We saw not the angels who met him there,
The gates of the city we could not see : Over the river, over the river,
My brother stands waiting to welcome me.
She hath done her bidding here,
Seraph of the skies, sweet love! Good she was, and fair in youth ;
And her mind was seen to soar,
Take her, then, forevermore,
Over the river the boatman pale
Carried another, the household pet ; Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale,
Darling Minnie ! I see her yet. She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands,
And fearlessly entered the phantom bark ; We felt it glide from the silver sands,
And all our sunshine grew strangely dark ; We know she is safe on the farther side,
Where all the ransomed and angels be :
NANCY AMELIA WOODBURY PRIEST.
Over the river, the mystic river,
| Thou art gone to the grave, – but 't were wrong My childhood's idol is waiting for me.
to deplore thee,
When God was thy ransom, thy guardian, thy For none return from those quiet shores,
guide; Who cross with the boatman cold and pale ;
He gave thee, and took thee, and soon will reWe hear the dip of the golden oars,
store thee, And catch a gleam of the snowy sail ;
Where death hath no sting, since the Saviour And lo! they have passed from ouryearning hearts,
THE PLEASURES OF HEAVEN.
THERE all the happy souls that ever were, Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore, Shall meet with gladness in one theatre ; They watch, and beckon, and wait for me. And each shall know there one another's face,
By beatific virtue of the place. And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold
There shall the brother with the sister walk, Is flushing river and hill and shore,
And sons and daughters with their parents talk; I shall one day stand by the water cold,
But all of God: they still shall have to say, And list for the sound of the boatman's oar ;
But make him all in all their theme that day: I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail,
That happy day that never shall see night! I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand,
Where he will be all beauty to the sight; I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale,
Wine or delicious fruits into the taste; To the better shore of the spirit land.
A music in the ears will ever last; I shall know the loved who have gone before,
Unto the scent, a spicery or balm ; And joyfully sweet will the meeting be,
And to the touch, a flower, like soft as palm. When over the river, the peaceful river,
He will all glory, all perfection, be,
God in the Union and the Trinity!
By light and comfort of spiritual grace; THOU ART GONE TO THE GRAVE. The vision of our Saviour face to face,
In his humanity ! to hear him preach Thou art gone to the grave, we no longer de
The price of our redemption, and to teach, plore thee,
Through his inherent righteousness in death, Though sorrows and darkness encompass the
The safety of our souls and forfeit breath! tomb;
What fulness of beatitude is here ! The Saviour has passed through its portals before What love with mercy mixed doth appear ! thee,
To style us friends, who were by nature foes ! And the lamp of his love is thy guide through
Adopt us heirs by grace, who were of those the gloom.
Had lost ourselves; and prodigally spent Thou art gone to the grave,
Our native portions and possesséd rent ! we no longer behold thee,
Yet have all debts forgiven us; an advance Nor tread the rough path of the world by thy
By imputed right to an inheritance
In his eternal kingdom, where we sit But the wide arms of mercy are spread to enfold
Equal with angels, and co-heirs of it.
BEN JONSON thee, And sinners may hope, since the Sinless has died,
I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY. Thou art gone to the grave, -and, its mansion
I would not live alway ; I ask not to stay
Where storm after storm rises dark o'er the way; forsaking, Perhaps thy tried spirit in doubt lingered Are enough for life's joys, full enough for its cheer.
The few lurid mornings that dawn on us here long, But the sunshine of heaven beamed bright on I would not live alway; no, – welcome the tomb! thy waking,
Since Jesus hath lain there, I dread not its gloom ; And the song which thou heard'st was the There sweet be my rest till he bid me arise, seraphin's song
To hail him in triumph descending the skies.