And the dark rock-pines, like tossing plumes,

Over his bier to wave;

And God's own hand, in that lonely land,
To lay him in the grave;

In that deep grave, without a name,
Whence his uncoffined clay

Shall break again - most wondrous thought!

Before the judgment day,

And stand with glory wrapped around

On the hills he never trod,

And speak of the strife that won our life
With the Incarnate Son of God.

O lonely tomb in Moab's land,
O dark Beth-peor's hill,
Speak to these curious hearts of ours,
And teach them to be still.
God hath his mysteries of grace-
Ways that we cannot tell;

He hides them deep, like the secret sleep
Of him he loved so well.

Bringing fragrance to the forest,
In the pleasant hours of e'en;
To the fields a robe of beauty,
To the leaves a brighter green.

Softly murmur, gentle voices,
Soothing care and healing woe,
Bringing to the chasten'd spirit
Hopes forgotten long ago.
Bringing comfort to the dying;
To the weary, giving rest;
Like the whispering of angels

In the mansions of the blest.

THE LAND OF THE BLEST.

DAUGHTER.

EAR father, I ask for my mother in vain;

DEAR

Has she sought some far country, her health to regain?

Has she left our cold country of frost and of snow,

For some warm, sunny land, where the soft breezes blow?

FATHER.

Yes, yes, gentle daughter, thy loved mother has gone
To a climate where sorrow and pain are unknown;
Her spirit is strengthened, her frame is at rest-
There is health, there is peace in the land of the blest.

DAUGHTER.

Is that land, my dear father, more lovely than ours?
Are the rivers more clear, and more blooming the flowers?
Does summer shine over it all the year long?

Is it cheered by the glad sound of music and song?

FATHER.

Yes, the flowers are despoiled not by winter or night,
The well-springs of life are exhaustless and bright;
And by exquisite voices sweet hymns are addressed
To the Lord who reigns over the land of the blest!

DAUGHTER.

Yet that land to my mother will lonely appear?

She shrank from the glances of strangers while here; From her foreign companions I know she will flee, And sigh, dearest father, for you and for me.

FATHER,

My darling, thy mother rejoices to gaze

On the long-severed friends of her earliest days;
Her parents have there found a mansion of rest,
And they welcome their child to the land of the blest!

DAUGHTER.

How I long to partake of such meetings of bliss!
That land must be, surely, more happy than this;
On you, my kind father, the journey depends:
Let us go to my mother, her kindred and friends.

FATHER.

Not on me, love; I trust I may reach that blest clime,
But in patience I stay till the Lord's chosen time;
And must strive, while awaiting his gracious behest,
To guide thy young steps to the land of the blest.
Yet fear not: the God whose direction we crave,
Is mighty to strengthen, to shield, and to save;
And His hand may yet lead thee, a glorified guest,
To the home of thy mother, the land of the blest!

GOD.

THOU eternal One! whose presence bright All space doth occupy, all motion guide; Unchanged through time's all-devastating flight; Thou only God! There is no God beside! Being above all beings! Mighty One!

Whom none can comprehend, and none explore; Who fill'st existence with thyself alone; Embracing all-supporting- ruling o'erBeing whom we call God- and know no more!

Thy chains the unmeasured universe surround:
Upheld by thee, by thee inspired with breath!
Thou the beginning with the end hath bound,
And beautifully mingled life and death!
As sparks mount upward from the fiery blaze,

So suns are born, so worlds spring forth from thee; And as the spangles in the sunny rays

Shine round the silver snow, the pageantry Of heaven's bright army glitters in thy praise.

A million torches lighted by thy hand

Wander unwearied through the blue abyss:
They own thy power, accomplish thy command
All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss.
What shall we call them? Piles of crystal light—
A glorious company of golden streams

Lamps of celestial ether burning bright

Suns lighting systems with their joyous beams? But thou to these art as the noon to night.

Yes! as a drop of water in the sea,

All this magnificence in thee is lost:

What are ten thousand worlds compared to thee?
And what am I then? Heaven's unnumbered host,
Though multiplied by myriads, and arrayed

In all the glory of sublimest thought,

Is but an atom in the balance weighed

Against thy greatness, is cipher brought

Against infinity! What am I then? Nought!

Nought! but the effluence of thy light divine,
Pervading worlds, hath reach'd my bosom too;

Yes! in my spirit doth thy spirit shine

As shines the sunbeam in a drop of dew.
Nought but I live, and on hope's pinions fly
Eager toward thy presence; for in thee
I live and breathe, and dwell; aspiring high,
Even to the throne of thy divinity.

I am, O God! and surely thou must be!

Thou art directing, guiding all, thou art!
Direct my understanding then to thee;
Control my spirit, guide my wandering heart:
Though but an atom 'midst immensity,
Still I am something, fashioned by thy hand!
I hold a middle rank 'twixt heaven and earth,
On the last verge of mortal being stand,

Close to the realms where angels have their birth, Just on the boundaries of the spirit-land!

Oh, thoughts ineffable! oh, visions blest!

Though worthless our conceptions all of thee,
Yet shall thy hallowed image fill our breast,
And waft its homage to thy deity.
God! thus alone my lowly thoughts can soar;
Thus seek thy presence - being wise and good!
'Midst thy vast works admire, obey, adore;
And when the tongue is eloquent no more,
The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude.

THE VILLAGE PREACHER.

TEAR yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,

NEAR corps in why a garden-flower grows wild,

There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
The village preacher's modest mansion rose.

A man he was to all the country dear,

And passing rich with forty pounds a year:
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,

Nor e'er had changed, nor wish'd to change his place;
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power,

By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize,
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant train,
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain:
The long-remember'd beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;