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Such is the love that shines around, | We seem to catch a blush of light
In palace, hall, or cot;

From the golden walls and portals bright:
The looks that beam, the words that sound, A sweet reflection from the ray,
The joy that decks the spot,

Which no sun beams, The hymn floats softly through the vale, Nor fair moon gleams, The scent of flowers is in the gale,

But GOD HIMSELF sheds all the day. Combining joy and summer-sun, Perfume and music, all in one. The infant group are now at play,

This is the time so long foreseen, Bright as that sun and summer's day, When ages rolled their years between; While the fond mother smiles to see Thy reign, O PRINCE of Peace! The ring dance round so merrily,

Envy, and STRIFE, and WRATA have Beam on! beam on! ye sacred hours,

fied, With joyance ever new;

The POWERS of Sin seem bound and No storm descends, no tempest lowers,

dead, No sorrow saddens you :

And Pain and SORROW cease ! The sun that makes your happy day, This was the empire thou didst buy, Bids e'en the inmost soul be gay.

When on the cross, ascending high,

Death yielded Thee the victory! If Heav'n has ever shone below,

O may it be an endless reign, Its dawning now appears;

Nor earth know other rule again! We seem to catch the morning-glow,

From those celestial spheres :

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Nor the frame, with mortal terror shaking,
Nor the heart, where love's soft bands

are breaking-
So would I die!

Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strung nerves at length must yield,
They tame but one another still:

Early or late

They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow,
Then boast no more your mighty deeds ;
Upon death's purple altar now,
See where the victor-victim bleeds :

All heads must come

To the cold tonib:
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet and blossom from the dust.

“ All bliss without a pang to cloud it!
All joy, without a pain to shroud it!
Not slain, but caught up as it were,
To meet my Saviour in the air!
So would I (lie!
Oh how bright
Were the realms of light
Bursting at once upon my sight!
Even so,
I long to go,
These parting hours, how sad and slow!”

(A real occurrence. )

Which is the happiest death to die?

“Oh !” said one, “if I might choose, Long at the gate of bliss would I lie, And feast my spirit ere it fly,

With bright celestial views.
Mine were a lingering death without pain,

A death which all might love to see,

And mark how bright and sweet should be The victory I should gain !

His voice grew faint, and fix'd was his eye,
As if gazing on visions of ecstasy :
The hue of his cheek and lips decayed,
Around his mouth a sweet smile played ;---

They look'd-he was dead!

His spirit had fled :
Painless and swift as his own desire,

The soul undress’d,

From her mortal vest,
Had stepp'd in her car of heavenly fire;

And proved how bright
Were the realms of light,
Bursting at once upon the sight!

“Fain would I catch a bymn of love

THE REVERIE. From the angel-harps which ring above;

CONDER. And sing it, as my parting breath

O! THAT in an fetter'd onion, Quivered and expired in death

Spirit could with spirit blend ! So that those on earth might hear

O! that in anseen communion, The barp-notes of another sphere;

Thought could hold the distant friend ! And mark, when nature faints and dies,

Who the secret can unravel, What springs of heavenly life arise;

Of the body's mystic guest ? And gather, from the death they view,

Who knows bow the soul may travel, A ray of hope to light them through,

While unconsciously we rest ? When they should be departing too.”

While in pleasing thraldom lying, “ No,” said another, “80 not I:

Seal'd in slumbers deep, it seems,
Sudden as thought is the death I would die; Far abroad it may be flying-
I would suddenly lay my shackles by, What is sleep? and what are dreams ?

Nor bear a single pang at parting, Earth, how parrow thy dominions,
Nor see the tear of sorrow starting,

And how slow the body's pace!
Nor bear the quivering lips that bless me, 0! to range on eagle's pinions
Nor feel the hands of love that press me,' Through illimitable space!

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Thou, the Judge, the Consummator,

| But the shadows of eve that encompass the Shepherd of the fold of God !


The abode of the dead, and the place of the Blessed fold ! no foe can enter,

tomb. And no friend departeth thence ; Jesus is their Sun, their Centre,

Shall we build to ambition ? Ah ! no; And their shield Omnipotence :

Affrighted he shrinketh away;

For see! they would pin him below Blessed! for the Lamb shall feed them,

In a small narrow cave, and begirt with cold All their tears shall wipe away;

clay, To the living fountains lead them, Till fruition's perfect day.

To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey. Lo! it comes, that day of wonder,

To beauty? Ah! no; she forgets Louder chorals ebake the skies;

The charms that she wielded before:

Nor knows the foul worm that he frets Hades'* gates are burst asunder,

The skin which, but yesterday, fools could See the new-cloth'd myriads rise !

adore, Thought, repress thy weak endeavour,

For the smoothness it held, or the tint which Here must reason prostrate fall :

it wore. Oh! the ineffable For Ever, And the Eternal All in All!

Sball we build to the purple of pride, The trappings which dizen the proud ?

Alas! they are all laid aside, THE DEATH OF THE RIGHTEOUS.

| And here's neither dress nor adornment

allow'd, BARBAILD.

| But the long winding-sheet and the fringe SWEET is the scene when Christians die,

of the shroud. When holy souls retire to rest;

To riches ? Alas! 'tis in vain,
How mildly beams the closing eye!
How gently heaves the expiring breast !

Who hid in their turns have been bid;

The treasures are squander'd again;

And here in the grave are all metals forbid, So fades a summer-cloud away :

But the tinsel that shone on the dark coffin So sinks the gale when storms are o'er ;

lid. So gently shuts the eye of day ; So dies a wave along the shore.

To the pleasures which mirth can afford,

The revel, the laugh, and the jeer? Triumphant smiles the victor's brow,

Ah! here is a plentiful hoard, Fann'd by some guardian angel's wing;

But the guests are all mute as their pitiful O grave! where is thy victory now?

cheer, And where, insidions death, thy sting?

And none but the worm is a reveller here.

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Ah! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, The first tabernacle to Hope we will build, nor fear;

And look for the sleepers around us to rise : Peace, peace is the watchword, the only The second to Faith, which insures it one here.


And the third to the Lamb of the great Sa Unto death, to whom monarchs must bow? | crifice, Ah! no; for his empire is known,

Who bequeath'd us them both when he rose And here there are trophies enow;

to the skies. Beneath, the cold dead, and around, the

dark stone, Are the signs of a sceptre that none may




IN Wales, in Switzerland, and in some parts of France, flowers are planted by the band of affection on the graves of departed relatives. It is a touching and beautiful custom, and, in the first-mentioned country, even the peasant may often be seen bending over the hallowed turf; and as he inserts into the sod some new plant or flower, he performs it with a feeling and a delicacy which do honour to his unsophisticated heart.

Fair flowers in sweet succession should arise
Through the long, blooming year, above the grave;
Spring breezes will breathe gentlier o'er that turf,
And Summer glance with mildest, meekest beam
To cherish Piety's dear offerings. There
Rich sounds of Autumn ever shall be heard
Mysterious, solemn music, waked by winds
To hymn the closing year! And, when the touch
Of sullen Winter blights the last, last gem
That bloomed around the tomb-0 there should be
The polished and enduring Laurel-there
The green and glittering Ivy, and all plants
All hues and forms delicious that adorn
The brumal reign, and often waken hopes
Refreshing. Let eternal verdure clothe
The silent fields where rest the honoured dead,
While mute Affliction comes, and lingers round
With slow, soft step, and pensive pause, and sigh
And tear, all holy.


And spread around its solemn tone,
Before ye give the earth its own.

O BURY not the dead by day,

When the bright sun is in the sky,
But let the evening's mantle gray

Upon the mouldering ashes lie,

The gaudy glare of noon-day light

Befits not well the hour of gloom, When friend o'er friend performs the rite

That parts them till the day of doom

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