THE SOUL'S PASSING.

417

Runs no more the circling river,

Warming, brightening every part;
There it slumbereth cold forever-

No more merry leap and start ;
No more flushing cheeks to blushing-

In its silent home, the heart.

Hope not answer to your praying !

Cold, responseless lies she there : Death, that ever will be slaying

Something gentle, something fair, Came with numbers soft as slumbers

She is with him otherwhere !

Mother! yes, you scarce would chide her

Had you seen the form he bore,
Heard the words he spoke beside her,

Tender as the look he wore,
While he proved her how he loved her

More than mother-ten times more !

Earthly father ! weep not o'er her !

To another Father's breast,
On the wings of love he bore her,

To the kingdom of the blest,
Where no weeping eyelids keeping,

Dwells she now in perfect rest.

Friend! he was a friend that found her

Amid blessings poor and scant,
With a wicked world around her,

And within a heavenly want;
And supplied her, home to guide her,

Wings for which the weary pant.

Lover! yes, she loved thee dearly !

When she left thee loved thee best ! Love, she knew, alone burns clearly

In the bosoms of the blest; Love she bore thee, watches o'er thee,

Is the angel in thy breast !

Mourners all ! have done with weeping !

I will tell you what he said, When he came and found her sleeping;

On her heart his hand he laid :“Sleep is, maiden, sorrow-laden;

Peace dwells only with the dead.

“Wend with me across the river,

Seems so bitter, is so sweet; On whose other shore forever

Happy, holy spirits greet; Grief all over, friend and lover

In a sweet communion meet

It is better, father, mother,

Lover, friend, to leave behind; All their blessèd loves and other,

Come with me, and thou shalt find, Where thy spirit shall inherit

Perfect love and perfect mind.

“Love that is to mortals given

Struggles with imperfect will; Love alone that homes in heaven

Can its perfect self fulfill ; Where possessing every blessing,

Still it grows and greatens still !

THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. 419

“See, I bring thee wings to bear thee,

To the blessed angel-home; Dear ones dead forever near thee,

From thy side no more to roam ; Love increased, wait, thou blessed,

Till the living loved ones come !

“ O'er the river !" Lo ! she faltered,

While he took her by the hand;
And her blessèd face grew altered

As she heard the sweet command.
Father! lover ! all was over !
So she passed to Spirit-Land !

CHARLES H. HITCHINGS.

The Dying Christain to his Soul.
VITAL spark of heavenly flame,

Quit, О quit, this mortal frame !
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying--
O the pain, the bliss of dying !
Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life!

Hark! they whisper: angels say,
Sister spirit, come away!
What is this absorbs me quite,
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirit, draws my breath ?
Tell me, my soul ! can this be death?

The world recedes—it disappears ;
Heaven opens on my eyes, my ears
With sounds seraphic ring;
Lend, lend your wings ! I mount, I fly!
O Grave ! where is thy victory?
O Death ! where is thy sting ?

ALEXANDER POPE.

Farewell Life, Welcome Life.
FA
'AREWELL Life! My senses swim,

And the world is growing dim;
Thronging shadows crowd the light,
Like the advent of the night;
Colder, colder, colder still,
Upward steals a vapor chill;
Strong the earthy odor grows-
I smell the mould above the rose !

Welcome Life! the spirit strives !
Strength returns, and hope revives !
Cloudy fears and shapes forlorn
Fly like shadows at the morn:
O'er the earth there comes a bloom,
Sunny light for sullen gloom,
Warm perfume for vapor cold
I smell the rose above the mould !

THOMAS HOOD.

Life's "Good Morning.” LIFE! we've been long together

, Through pleasant and through cloudy weather ; 'T is hard to part when friends are dear; Perhaps 't will cost a sigh, a tear; Then steal away, give little warning,

Choose thine own time;
Say not Good-Night, but in some brighter clime
Bid me Good Morning.

ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD. PALMS OF GLORY.

421

Palms of Glory.

, Crowns that never fade away, Gird and deck the saints in light,

Priests, and kings, and conquerors they. Yet the conquerors bring their palms

To the Lamb amidst the throne; And proclaim in joyful psalms,

Victory through his cross alone !

Kings their crowns for harps resign,

Crying as they strike the chords, “Take the kingdom-it is thine:

King of kings, and Lord of lords !" Round the altar priests confess,

If their robes are white as snow, ’T was the Saviour's righteousness,

And his blood that made them so.

Who were these ?—On earth they dwelt,

Sinners once, of Adam's race; Guilt, and fear, and suffering felt,

But were saved from all by grace. They were mortal too, like us;

Ah! when we like them shall die, May our souls, translated thus, Triumph, reign, and shine on high !

JAMES MONTGOMERY.