868.

In life, in death, in dark, in light,

All are in God's care:

Sound the black abyss, pierce the deep of night, And He is there.

869.

WHITTIER.

"A change from twilight unto day.”

870.

What if some bitter pains the passage hath,
Which make frail flesh to fear the troubled wave;
Is not short pain well bought that brings long ease,
And lays the soul to sleep in quiet grave ?

Peace after war-port after stormy seas,

Rest after toil-death after life doth greatly please. SPENSER.

871.

O! when the Lord shall summon us,

Whom thou hast left behind,

May we, untainted by the world,

As sure a welcome find.

872.

MILLMAN.

We've lost thee 'tis the will of Him who gave,
To lay thy sorrows in the silent grave,

To waft thy virtuous soul to realms above,
Where all is happiness and all is love.

873.

God of the just, thou gav'st the bitter
I bow to thy behest, and drink it up.

cup;

H. KIRK WHITE.

874.

Oh, Saviour of the faithful dead,

With whom their spirits dwell, Though cold and damp the turf is spread Above their narrow cell,

No more we cling to mortal clay,

We doubt and fear no more,

Nor shrink to tread the darksome way,
Which thou hast trod before.

875.

HEBER.

Oh, when Christ calls us, may we joyful rise, And meet to part no more beyond the skies. 876.

Like a dream of bliss

She pass'd from earth away.
877.

Parted friends again may meet,

From the toils of nature free;
Crown'd with mercy, O! how sweet

Will eternal friendship be.

878.

C. W. THOMSON.

Thou wert my rock, my shield, my sword,
My trust was in thy name and word.

879.

66 Weep not for me."

880.

As sweet a child as e'er drew vital breath,
Here lies a prey to fell disease and death;
But God permits our dearest child to go,
To wean our hearts from all things here below,
That we might fix them upon things above,
And follow him to realms of endless love.

881.

There's not a charm of soul or brow,
Of all we knew and loved in thee,-
But lives in holier beauty now,

Baptized in immortality.

882.

WHITTIER.

The memory of the dead is given
To link the chain good spirits weave
Between our souls and heaven.

883.

Dear as thou wert and justly dear,
I will not weep for thee,
One thought shall check the rising tear,
It is that thou art free.

And thus shall faith's consoling power,
The tears of love restrain;
Ah, who that saw thy parting hour,
Could wish thee here again?
Triumphant in thy closing eye
The hope of glory shone.

884.

DALE.

Let it be ours to own the hand of God,
And humbly bend beneath his chast'ning rod.

885.

He was one, who calm and true,
Life's highest purpose understood,
And like his blessed master knew

The joy of doing good.

887.

My husband dear, for me no longer grieve,
For death doth every earthly care relieve,
In your Creator now place all your rest,
He sees and orders all things for the best.

888.

Farewell! a little time and we

Who knew thee well, and loved thee here, One after one shall follow thee,

As pilgrims through the gate of fear, Which opens on eternity.

889.

WHITTIER.

Look upward still and wait the rays
That light the pilgrim home.

890.

Death-the end of care and pain-
Death, the wretch's happiest meed,
Death can break the strongest chain,
Death is liberty indeed.

C. W. THOMSON.

EPITAPHS FROM THE GERMAN.

891.

To weary hearts, to mourning homes,
God's meekest angel gently comes:
No power has he to banish pain,
Or give us back our lost again;
And yet in tenderest love our dear
And heavenly Father sends him here.

892.

Oh! thou who mournest on thy way,
With longings for the close of day;
He walks with thee that angel kind,
And gently whispers, "Be resigned."
Bear up, bear on, the end shall tell
The dear Lord ordereth all things well.

893.

The good may see earth's glory flee,
Heaven's ever-living glory theirs ;
Their path is peace and pleasantness,
And they are joy's immortal heirs.
JOHN BOWRING.

894.

Where is the victory of the grave?
What dust upon the spirit lies?
God keeps the sacred life He gave,
The prophet never dies.

895.

What is this passing scene?

A peevish April day

A little sun, a little rain,

WHITTIER.

And then night sweeps along the plain,

And all things fade away.

896.

H. KIRK WHITE.

O man! thy date of joy is brief,
More brief is pleasure's hour-
It withers like the blighted leaf,
Fades like the gathered flower.