On Christian mourners, while they wait And such the tones of love, which break Quelling th' embitter'd spirit's strife "Am I believe, and die no more." Unchanged that voice-and though not yet Far better they should sleep awhile Nor wake, until new heavens, new earth, Than wander back to life, and lean How grows in Paradise our store. Then pass, ye mourners, cheerly on, Then cheerly to your work again To run, untir'd, love's blessed race, As meet for those, who face to face Over the grave their Lord have met. Keble. IV. He that was dead rose up and spoke― He spoke ! Was it of that majestic world unknown? Those words, which first the bier's dead silence broke, Came they with revelation in each tone? Were the far cities of the nations gone, The solemn halls of consciousness or sleep, For man uncurtain'd by that spirit lone, Back from their portal summon'd o'er the deep? Be hush'd, my soul! the veil of darkness lay Still drawn thy Lord call'd back the voice departed, To spread his truth, to comfort his weak-hearted, Put on submissive strength to meet, not question, death! Mrs Hemans. STILLING THE TEMPEST. "And he arose, aud rebuked the wind, and said unto the sea; ' Peace, be still.'"- Mark iv. 39. FEAR was within the tossing bark, When stormy winds grew loud; And men stood breathless in their dread, But One was there, who rose and said And the wind ceas'd :-it ceased!-that word And sank beneath his eye. And slumber settled on the deep, And silence on the blast, As when the righteous falls asleep, Thou that didst rule the angry hour, Thou that didst bow the billows' pride, Speak, speak to passion's raging tide, - Mrs Hemans. JAIRUS' DAUGHTER. "And he put them all out, and took her by the hand, and called, saying; 'Maid, arise.' "-Luke viii. 54. THEY have watched her last and quivering breath, And the maiden's soul has flown; They have wrapped her in the robes of death, And laid her, dark and lone. But the mother casts a look behind, Upon that fallen flower, Nay, start not-'twas the gathering wind; Those limbs have lost their power. And tremble not at that cheek of snow, Didst thou not close that expiring eye, She lies on her couch, all pale and hushed, And is still as the spring-flower by traveller crushed, Which dies on its snowy bed. The mother has flown from that lonely room, Her ivory hand is cold as the tomb, Her mother strays with folded arms, She shuts her thoughts to joy or charms; But listen! what name salutes her ear? "Jesus," she cries, "has no power here; |