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Benign restorer of the soul,

Who ever fliest to bring relief, When first we feel the rude control

Of love or pity, joy or grief.

The sage's and the poet's theme,

In every elime, in every age; Thou charm'st in fancy's idle dream,

In reason's philosophic page.


law which moulds a tear,
And bids it trickle from its source,
That law preserves the earth a sphere,
And guides the planets in their course.



Oh! snatched away in beauty's bloom,
On thee sball press no ponderous tomb,

But on thy turf shall rosés réar
Their leaves, the earliest of the

And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom.

And oft by yon blue gushing stream,

Shall sorrow lean her drooping head,
And feed deep thought with many a dream;

And lingering pause, and lightly tread,
Fond wretch ! as if her steps disturbed the dead.

Away!—we know that tears are vain,

That Death nor heeds nor hears distress :
Will this unteach us to complain,

Or make one mourner weep the less ?
And thou, who tellst me to forget,
Thy looks are wan—thy eyes are wet!



Beneath our feet, and o'er our head,

Is equal warning given ; Beneath us lie the countless dead,

Above us is the beaven!

Their names are graven on the stone,

Their bones are in the clay ; And ere another day is done, Ourselves


be as they

Death rides on every passing breeze,

He lurks in every flower ; Each season has its own disease,

Its peril every hour!

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Our eyes

have seen the steps of age Halt feebly t'wards the tomb, And yet shall earth our hearts engage,

And dreams of days to come ?

Turn, mortal, turn ! thy danger know;

Where'er thy foot can tread,
The earth rings hollow from below,

And warns thee of her dead !

Turn, Christian, turn ! thy soul apply

To truths divinely given;
The bones that underneath thee lie
Shall live for hell or heaven.

Bishop Heber.


Fierce passions discompose the mind,

As tempésts vex the sea;
But calm content and peace we find,

When, Lord, we turn to thee.

In vain by reason and by rule,

We try to bend the will';
For none but in the Saviour's school

Can learn the heavenly skill.

Since at his feet my soul has sat,

His gracious words to hear, Contented with my present state,

I cast on bim my care.

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· Art thou a sinner, soul ?' he said ;

Then how canst thou complain ; How light thy troubles here, if weighed

With everlasting pain.

• If thou of murmuring would'st be cured,

Compare thy griefs with mine; Think what my love for thee endured,

And thou wilt not repine.

• 'Tis I appoint thy daily lot,

And I do all things well;
Thou soon shalt leave this wretched spot,

And rise with me to dwell.

• In life my grace shall strength supply,

Proportioned to thy day;
At death thou still shalt find me nigh,

To wipe thy tears away.

Thus I, who once my wretched days

In vain repining spent ;
Taught in my Saviour's school of

Have learned to be content.

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