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Earth hath hosts; but thou canst show
Many a million for her one; Through thy gates the mortal flow Has for countless years rolled on:
Back from the tomb
No step has come;
ARTH to earth, and dust to dust !"
Here the evil and the just,
Age on age shall roll along
But a day is coming fast-
It shall come in fear and wonder,
Then shall come the judgment sign;
Then thy mount, Jerusalem,
To the Southern Cross.
WEET Empress of the Southern sea,
Hail to thy loveliness once more ! Thou gazest mournfully on me,
As mindful we have met before !
When first I saw the Polar Star
Go down behind the silver sea, And greeted thy mild light from far,
I did not know its mystery.
My Polar Star was by my side,
The star of hope was on my brow; I've lost them both beneath the tide
The cross alone is left me now.
Not such as thou, sweet Thing of stars,
Moving in queenly state on high, But wrought of stern, cold iron bars,
And borne, ah me! so wearily !
Yet something from those soft, warm skies
Seems whispering, “Thou shall yet be blest !". And gazing in thy tender eyes,
The symbol brightens on my breast.
I read at last the mystery
That slumbers in each starry gem;
EMILY C. JUDSON. IN VIEW OF DEATH.
As down in the Sunless Retreats.
S down in the sunless retreats of the ocean A
Sweet flowers are springing no mortal can see,
My God, silent to thee,-
As still to the star of its worship, though clouded,
The needle points faithfully o’er the dim sea,–
My God, trembling to thee,
In View of Death.
'HE hour, the hour, the parting hour,
That takes from this dark world its power,
On the same withering bier, my soul !
Of mortal hope and fear, my soul !
How sweet, while on this broken lyre
To praise the Immortal One, my soul !
Nor dwell in heaven alone, my soul !
How sweet, while, waning fast away,
The golden dawn above, my soul !
In ever-living love, my soul !
The hour, the hour so pure and calm,
Which shuns this wintry clime, my soul !
The Soul's Passing.
T is ended! All is over !
Lo! the weeping mourners comeMother, father, friend, and lover
To the death-encumbered room. Lips are pressèd to the blessed
Lips that evermore are dumb.
Take her faded hand in thine
Hand that no more answereth kindly; See the eyes that wont to shine,
Uttering love, now staring blindly; Tender-hearted speech departed
Speech that echoed so divinely.