6 Let sickness blast, let death devour,
If heaven must recompense our pains:
Perish the grass, and fade the flower,
If firm the word of God remains.

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P. M.

MILMAN.

Funeral Hymn.

1 BROTHER, thou art gone before us,
And thy saintly soul is flown
Where tears are wiped from every eye,

And sorrow is unknown,—

From the burden of the flesh,

And from care and fear released,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.

2 Sin can never taint thee now,
Nor doubt thy faith assail,

Nor thy meek trust in Jesus Christ

And the Holy Spirit fail:

And there thou 'rt sure to meet the good,
Whom on earth thou lovedst best,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.

3 "Earth to earth," and "dust to dust,"
The solemn priest hath said;

So we lay the turf above thee now,
And we seal thy narrow bed:

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But thy spirit, brother, soars away
Among the faithful blest,

Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.

1 THOU art gone to the grave, but we will not deplore

thee;

Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb, The Saviour has passed through its portals before thee,

And the lamp of his love is thy guide through the gloom.

2 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 has died.

3 Thou art gone to the grave, and, its mansions forsaking,

Perhaps thy tried spirit in doubt lingered long; But the sunshine of heaven beamed bright on thy waking,

And the song that thou heard'st was the seraphim's

song.

4 Thou art gone to the grave, but 't were wrong to deplore thee,

When God was thy Ransom, thy Guardian, and
Guide;

He gave thee, and took thee, and soon will restore thee,

Where death has no sting, since the Saviour has

died.

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S. M.

WILSON.

Death of a Young Girl.

1 WHAT though the stream be dead,
Its banks all still and dry!

It murmureth now o'er a lovelier bed,
In the air-groves of the sky.

2 What though our bird of light
Lie mute with plumage dim;
In heaven I see her glancing bright,
I hear her angel hymn.

3 True that our beauteous doe
Hath left her still retreat,

But purer now in heavenly snow,
She lies at Jesus' feet.

4 O star! untimely set!

Why should we weep for thee!
Thy bright and dewy coronet

Is rising o'er the sea.

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C. M.

WILSON.

Consolations in Bereavement.

1 THE air of Death breathes through our souls,
The dead all round us lie;

By day and night the death-bell tolls,
And says, "Prepare to die!"

2 The loving ones we loved the best,
Like music all are gone;

And the wan moonlight bathes in rest,
Their monumental stone.

3 But not when the death-prayer is said,
The life of life departs:
The body in the grave is laid,
Its beauty in our hearts.

4 At holy midnight voices sweet,
Like fragrance fill the room;

And happy ghosts with noiseless feet,
Come brightening from the tomb.

5 We know who sends the visions bright,
From whose dear side they came!
We veil our eyes before thy light,
We bless our Saviour's name!

6 This frame, O God, this feeble breath,
Thy hand may soon destroy;

We think of Thee, and feel in death
A deep and awful joy.

7 Dim is the light of vanished years
In the glory yet to come;

O idle grief! O foolish tears!
When Jesus calls us home.

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C. M.

ANONYMOUS.

Death of the Young.

1 CALM on the bosom of thy God,
Young spirit, rest thee now!
E'en while with us thy footsteps trod,
His seal was on thy brow.

2 Dust, to its narrow house beneath!
Soul, to its place on high!

They that have seen thy look in death,
No more may fear to die.

3 Lone are the paths, and sad the bowers,
Whence thy meek smile is gone;
But O, a brighter home than ours,
In heaven is now thine own.

1 As the sweet flower that scents the morn,

But withers in the rising day,

Thus lovely was this infant's dawn,

Thus swiftly fled its life away.

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