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Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way,
And lean'd in graceful attitudes, to rest.
How strikingly the course of nature tells,
By its light heed of human suffering,
That it was fashion'd for a happier world!

King David's limbs were weary. He had fled
From far Jerusalem and now he stood,
With his faint people, for a little rest,
Upon the shores of Jordan. The light wind
Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow
To its refreshing breath; for he had worn
The mourner's covering, and he had not felt
That he could see his people until now.
They gather'd round him on the fresh green bank,
And spoke their kindly words; and, as the sun
Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there,
And bow'd his head upon his hands to pray.
Oh when the heart is full-when bitter thoughts
Come crowding thickly up for utterance,
And the poor common words of courtesy
Are such an empty mockery-how much
The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer!
He pray'd for Israel-and his voice went up
STRONGLY AND FERVENTLY. He pray'd for those
Whose love had been his shield-and his deep tones
Grew tremulous. But, oh! for Absalom—
For his estranged, misguided Absalom-
The proud, bright being, who had burst away
In all his princely beauty, to defy

The heart that cherish'd him for him he pour'd
In agony that would not be controll'd,
Strong supplication, and forgave him there,
Before his God, for his deep sinfulness.

*

The pall was settled. He who slept beneath
Was straighten'd for the grave; and, as the folds
Sank to the still proportions, they betray'd

The matchless symmetry of Absalom.

His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls
Were floating round the tassels as they swayed
To the admitted air, as glossy now

As when, in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing
The snowy fingers of Judea's daughters.
His helm was at his feet; his banner, soil'd
With trailing through Jerusalem was laid,
Reversed, beside him; and the jewell'd hilt,

Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade,
Rested, like mockery, on his cover'd brow.
The soldiers of the king trod to and fro,
Clad in the garb of battle; and their chief,
The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier,
And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly,
As if he fear'd the slumberer might stir.
A slow step startled him.

HE GRASP'D HIS BLADE

AS IF A TRUMPET RANG; but the bent form
Of David enter'd, and he gave command,
In a low tone, to his few followers,

And left him with his dead. The king stood still
Till the last echo died; then, throwing off
The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back
The pall from the still features of his child,
He bow'd his head upon him, and broke forth
In the resistless eloquence of woe:

"ALAS! MY NOBLE BOY! THAT THOU SHOULD'ST DIE!
THOU, WHO WERT MADE SO BEAUTIFULLY FAIR!
THAT DEATH SHOULD SETTLE IN THY GLORIOUS EYE,
AND LEAVE HIS STILLNESS IN THIS CLUSTERING HAIR !
HOW COULD HE MARK THEE FOR THE SILENT TOMB !
MY PROUD BOY, ABSALOM!

"Cold is thy brow, my son ! and I am chill,
As to my bosom I have tried to press thee:

How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill,

Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee,
And hear thy sweet My Father! from these dumb
And cold lips, Absalom!

"But death is on thee. I shall hear the gush
Of music, and the voices of the young;
And life will pass me in the mantling blush,
And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung;
But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come
To meet me, Absalom!

"And oh when I am stricken, and my heart,
Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken,

How will its love for thee, as I depart,

Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token !
It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom,
To see thee, Absalom!

"And now, farewell

'Tis hard to give thee up :
With death so like a slumber on thee ;-
And thy dark sin 1-Oh! I could drink the cup,
If from this woe its bitterness had won thec.

May God have call'd thee, like a wanderer, home,
My lost boy, Absalom!

He cover'd up his face, and bow'd himself
A moment on his child; then, giving him
A look of melting tenderness, he clasp'd
His hands convulsively, as if in prayer;
And, as if strength were given him of God,
He rose up calmly, and composed the pall
FIRMLY and decently -and left him there—
As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.

THE CHRISTIAN'S DEATH.
[Bold and earnest.]

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.
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.

Thou art gone to the grave,—and its mansion forsaking,
Perhaps thy tried spirit in doubt lingered long;

BUT THE SUNSHINE OF HEAVEN BEAMED BRIGHT ON THY
WAKING,

AND THE VOICE WHICH THOU HEARD'ST WAS THE SERAPHIM'S SONG.

Thou art gone to the grave,—but 'twere wrong to deplore thee, WHEN GOD WAS THY RANSOM, THY GUARDIAN, THY GUIDE; HE GAVE THEE, and took thee, AND SOON WILL RESTORE THEE, WHERE DEATH HATH NO STING, SINCE THE SAVIOUR HATH DIED.

FUNERAL ANTHEM.

BY MILMAN.

[Earnest and serious.]

Brother, thou art gone before us,
And thy saintly soul is flown
Where tears are wiped from every eye,
And where sorrow is unknown.

From the burthen of the flesh,

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

The toilsome way thou'st travelled o'er,
And borne the heavy load;

But Christ hath taught thy languid feet
To reach his blest abode :
Thou'rt sleeping now like Lazarus
Upon his Father's breast,

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

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 loved'st best;
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.

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;
But thy spirit, brother, SOARS AWAY
AMONG THE FAITHFUL BLEST;
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.

And when the Lord shall summon us,
Whom thou hast left behind,

May we, untainted by the world,

As sure a welcome find.

MAY EACH LIKE HIM DEPART IN PEACE, TO BE A GLORIOUS GUEST

Where the wicked cease from troubling,

And the weary are at rest.

BELSHAZZAR'S DEATH.

By B. W. PROCTER.

[Earnest and vigorous.]

BELSHAZZAR IS KING! BELSHAZZAR IS LORD!
And a thousand dark nobles all bend at his board;
Fruits glisten, flowers blossom, meats steam, and a flood
Of the wine that man loveth runs redder than blood;
Wild dancers are there, and a riot of mirth,

And the beauty that maddens the passions of earth;
And the crowds all shout, till the vast roofs ring-
"ALL PRAISE TO BELSHAZZAR, BELSHAZZAR THE KING!"
"BRING FORTH," cries the monarch,

66

THE VESSELS OF GOLD

WHICH MY FATHER TORE DOWN FROM THE TEMPLES OF OLD;
BRING FORTH, AND WE'LL DRINK, WHILE THE TRUMPETS ARE
BLOWN,

TO THE GODS OF BRIGHT SILVER, OF GOLD, AND OF STONE;
BRING FORTH!" and before him the vessels all shine,
And he bows unto Baal, and he drinks the dark wine;
While the trumpets bray, and the cymbals ring,-
"PRAISE, PRAISE TO BELSHAZZAR, BELSHAZZAR THE KING!"
Now what cometh-look, look!--without menace, or call?
Who writes with the lightning's bright hand on the wall?
What pierceth the king like the point of a dart?
What drives the bold blood from his cheek to his heart?
"CHALDEANS! MAGICIANS! THE LETTERS EXPOUND!"
They are read-and Belshazzar is dead on the ground!
HARK! THE PERSIAN IS COME ON A CONQUEROR'S WING;
AND A MEDE'S ON THE THRONE OF BELSHAZZAR THE KING!

DEATH OF LAZARUS THE BEGGAR.
BY DR. TALMAGE.

[With great care, earnestly.]

The rich man inhabits a magnificent palace, with a numerous retinue of servants and sycophants. The lord of the place, in dress that changes with every whim, lies on a lounge, stupid with stuffed digestion. His linen is fine and costly. His jewels the brightest, his purple the rarest. Let him lie quiet a moment until we take his photograph. Here it is:-"A certain rich man which was clothed in purple and fine linen, and fared sumptuously every day." ." What more could that man have My lord, be happy! After a while he leans over the balustrade, and says to a richly dressed servant, "Look at that fellow lying down at my gate. I wonder why the porter allows him to lie

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