There she sleeps, the daughter Of your fondest care :Sleeps? Ah, that deep slumber Knows no wakening there : Lonely you must labour, Lone to toil must rise, Still, and calm, and tranquil, Yet the blush of beauty Tints some distant hill: On the lips of death, As its dying ember Feels the SAVIOUR'S breath. Grants the prize without the course, Crowns, without the battle's force. Alleluia. GOD, Who loveth innocence, What need we beseech in prayer Alleluia. Nay, for us it prays the LORD Alleluia. CHRIST, when this sad life is done, Alleluia. And in Thine own tender love, Alleluia. Amen. "THY DAUGHTER IS DEAD, TROUBLE NOT THE DE MASTER." EAD is thy daughter, trouble not the Master : Thus in the ruler's ear his servant spake, When tremblingly he urged the SAVIOUR faster Up the green slope from that white-margined lake. The soft wave weltered, and the breeze came sighing Out of the oleander thickets red; He only heard a breath that gasped in dying, "O trouble not the Master-she is dead. Trouble Him not. seeming Ah! are those words be The desolation of that awful day, When love's vain fancies, hope's delusive dreaming, We need Him most when the dear eyes are closing, Then most we need the gentle Human Feeling Then most we need the Voice that while it weepeth Then most we need the thoughts of Resurrection, To walk with Him in robes as white as snow. When in our nursery garden falls a blossom, When all is silent, neither moan nor cheering, Did He not enter in when that cold sleeper Lay still, with pulseless heart and leaden eyes, Put calmly forth each loud tumultuous weeper, And take her by the hand and bid her rise? Come to us, SAVIOUR! in our lone dejection, Speak calmly to our wild and passionate grief, Bring us the hopes and thoughts of resurrection, Bring us the comfort of a true belief! Come! with that Human Voice that breaks in weeping, Come with that awful Tenderness Divine, Come! tell us that they are not dead but sleeping, But gone before to Thee, for they are Thine. THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD. H it is sweet to think OH Of those that are departed, Yet not as in the days Of earthly ties we love them; For they are touched with rays From light that is above them: Another sweetness shines Around their well-known features; GOD with His glory signs His dearly ransomed creatures. Yes, they are more our own, In their dear LORD'S caresses. Dear dead! they have become |