'Tis past! That hand we grasp'd, alas, in vain! Nor shall we look upon his face again!

But to his closing eyes, for all were there, Nothing was wanting; and, through many a year We shall remember with a fond delight

The words so precious which we heard to-night;
His parting, though awhile our sorrow flows,
Like setting suns or music at the close.

Then was the drama ended. Not till then,
So full of chance and change the lives of men,
Could we pronounce him happy. Then secure
From pain, from grief, and all that we endure,
He slept in peace—say rather soar'd to heaven,
Upborne from earth by Him to whom 'tis given
In his right hand to hold the golden key
That opes the portals of Eternity.

-When by a good man's grave I muse alone, Methinks an angel sits upon the stone; Like those of old, on that thrice-hallow'd night, Who sate and watched in raiment heavenly-bright, And, with a voice inspiring joy, not fear, Says, pointing upward, "Know, he is not here, He is risen!"

THE DEATH OF A CHRISTIAN.

THOU

[BISHOP HEBER.]

HOU art gone to the grave, but we will not deplore thee,

Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb; The Saviour has pass'd through its portals before thee, And the lamp of his love is thy guide through the gloom,

Thou art gone to the grave,- -we no longer behold thee, Nor tread the rough path of the world by thy side; But the wide arms of mercy are spread to enfold thee, And sinners may hope since the Sinless hath died.

Thou art gone to the grave, but 'twere wrong to deplore thee,

When God was thy father, thy guardian, thy guide : He gave thee, and took thee, and soon will restore

thee,

Where death hath no sting, since the Saviour hath died.

THE DEATH OF THE YOUNG MOTHER.

[POLLOK.]

T was an April day; and blithely all

IT

The youth of nature leap'd beneath the sun, And promis'd glorious manhood; and our hearts Were glad, and round them danced the lightsome

blood,

In healthy merriment-when tidings came,
A child was born; and tidings came again,
That she who gave it birth was sick to death,
So swift trod sorrow on the heels of joy!
We gather'd round her bed, and bent our knees,
In fervent supplication to the Throne

Of Mercy; and perfumed our prayers with sighs
Sincere, and penitential tears and looks
Of self-abasement. But we sought to stay
An angel on the earth, a spirit ripe

For heaven; and Mercy, in her love, refused;

Most merciful, as oft, when seeming least!

Most gracious when she seem'd the most to frown!
The room I well remember: and the bed
On which she lay; and all the faces too,
That crowded dark and mournfully around.
Her father there, and mother bending stood,
And down their aged cheeks fell many drops
Of bitterness; her husband, too, was there,
And brothers; and they wept-her sisters, too,
Did weep and sorrow comfortless; and I,
Too, wept, though not to weeping given: and all
Within the house was dolorous and sad.

This I remember well, but better still
The dying eye :—that eye alone was bright,
And brighter grew, as nearer death approach'd;
As I have seen the gentle little flower
Look fairest in the silver beam, which fell
Reflected from the thunder-cloud that soon
Came down, and o'er the desert scatter'd far
And wide its loveliness. She made a sign
To bring her babe ;-'twas brought, and by her placed.

She look'd upon its face that neither smiled

Nor wept, nor knew who gazed upon't, and laid
Her hand upon its little breast, and sought
For it with look that seem'd to penetrate
The heavens-unutterable blessings-such
As God to dying parents only granted,

For infants left behind them in the world:
"God keep my child!" we heard her say, and heard
No more: the Angel of the Covenant

Was come, and faithful to his promise stood,
Prepared to walk with her through death's dark vale.
And now her eyes grew bright, and brighter still,
Too bright for ours to look upon, suffused
With many tears, and closed without a cloud.
They set as sets the morning-star, which goes
Not down behind the darken'd west, nor hides
Obscured among the tempests of the sky,
But melts away into the light of heaven.

THE DEATH OF AN INFANT.

[MRS. SIGOURNEY.]

DEATH found strange beauty on that cherub brow,

And dash'd it out. There was a tint of rose

On cheek and lip; he touch'd the veins with ice,
And the rose faded. Forth from those blue eyes
There spake a wishful tenderness,-a doubt
Whether to grieve or sleep, which Innocence
Alone can wear. With ruthless haste he bound
The silken fringes of their curtaining lids

For ever.

There had been a murmuring sound, With which the babe would claim its mother's ear, Charming her even to tears. The spoiler set His seal of silence. But there beam'd a smile, So fix'd and holy, from that marble brow, Death gazed and left it there; he dared not steal The signet-ring of Heaven.

T

A FATHER'S GRIEF.

[THE REV. THOMAS DALE.]

O trace the bright rose, fading fast
From a fair daughter's cheek;

To read upon her pensive brow
The fears she will not speak ;
To mark that deep and sudden flush,
So beautiful and brief,

Which tells the progress of decay-
This is a Father's grief.

When langour from her joyless couch,
Has scared sweet sleep away,
And heaviness, that comes with night,
Departs not with the day;

To meet the fond endearing smile,
That seeks, with false relief,
Awhile to calm his bursting heart-
This is a Father's grief.